- 


, 
&¥- 


.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


POETICAL    WORKS 


FELICIA   HEMANS, 


COMPLETE, 


WITH  A  CRITICAL  PREFACE, 


NEW  YORK: 

AMERICAN    BOOK    EXCHANGE, 

764  BROADWAY. 
1881. 


PEE  FAC  E. 


Ir  has  Vs*n  «oid  by  a  fine  writer,  that, 
although  gwiius  is  the  heir  of  fame,  the  loss 
of  life  is  the  uundition  on  which  the  bright 
reversion  mum.  be  earned ;  that  fame  is  the 
recompense  hot.  of  the  living,  but  of  the 
dead, — its  ten^pie  standing  over  the  grave, 
and  the  flame  or  its  altar  kindled  from  the 
ashes  of  the  great.  There  is  truth  in  the 
thought,  as  well  as  beauty  in  the  expression 
of  it,  though,  like  most  general  remarks  of 
the  same  description,  it  is  open  to  both  quali- 
fication and  exception.  It  is  true  that  fame 
is  not  popularity  merely.  It  is  not  the  shout 
of  the  multitude.  It  is  not  '  the  idle  buzz 
of  fashion,  the  venal  puff,  the  soothing  flat- 
tery  of  fa7^ur  or  of  friendship.'  But  is  it 
alone,  on  the  other  hand,  the  spirit  of  a  man 
surviving  himself,  as  Hazlitt  describes  it,  in 
the  minds  and  thoughts  of  other  men  ?  Or, 
as  he  splendidly  represents  it  again,  is  it 
only  '  the  sound  which  the  stream  of  high 
thoughts,  carried  down  to  future  ages,  makes 
as  it  flows — deep,  distant,  murmuring  ever- 
more like  the  waters  of  the  mighty  ocean?' 
This  is  fame,  indeed.  No  reputation  can  be 
called  such,  that  will  not  endure  that  test 
But  may  it  not  begin  also  in  the  life  of  him 
that  earns  it  ?  May  it  not  begin,  and  con- 
tinue, coincident  with  the  mere  popularity 
which  is  so  often  mistaken  for  itself, — as  the 
immortal  soul  disdains  not  the  envelope  of 
perishing  humanity,  which  it  is  destined  so 
soon  to  leave,  and  to  outlive  so  long  ?  May 
not  the  spirit  of  a  man  transfuse  its  influence 
into  the  spirits  of  other  men,  without  the 
mythological  transmigration  which,  accord- 
ing to  this  theory,  death  implies ; — and  the 
force  of  that  influence  be  felt,  and  recognized, 
and  acknowledged, — imperfectly  and  tardily 
we  admit  that  it  generally  is, — ere  yet  the 


'  swift  decay'  of  him  that  so  works  tor  the 
world,  and  for  posterity,  shall  quite  relcam 
him  from  his  toils?  It  is  truly  a  wee  v 
life'— 

"  A  wasting  task,  and  lone—" 
as  that  of  the  diver,  in  Eastern  Seas,  for  tr 
gem  that,  gleam  as  it  may,  'a  star  to  all  a* 
festive  hall', — 

"—Not  one  'midst  throngs  will  say, 
'  A  life  has  been,  like  a  rain-drop,  shed. 
For  that  pale  quivering  ray  '  "* 

A  weary  life  !  And  who  will  think,  the 
mournful  fancy  adds, 

"  When  the  strain  is  sung, 
Till  a  thousand  hearts  are  slirr'd. 
What  life-drops,  from  the  minstrel  wrung. 
Have  gush'd  with  every  word  7" 

"  None !  none !— his  treasures  live  like  thine, 

fie  strives  and  dies  like  thee,— 
Thou  that  hast  been  to  the  pearl's  dark  shrine, 

O  wrestler  with  the  sea  !" 

And  this  also  is  doubtless  true, — that, 
weary  and  wasting  as  it  is, — this  diving  for 
the  gems  of  thought, — the  world,  that  is  to 
wear  the  rich  results,  does  not  and  cannot 
appreciate,  or  but  slowly  and  slightly  at  the 
best,  the  exhausting  effort  which  it  costs 
That  can  be  understood  only  by  him  who 
suffers  it,  and  it  is  the  province  of  the  one 
party  even  to  enjoy  '  the  price  of  the  bitter 
tears'  of  the  other.  But  it  is  enjoyed  ;  and 
that  is  fame.  It  is  the  influence  of  mind 
upon  mind,  independently  of  every  personal 
consideration ;  and  that  is  fame, — however 
much  those  considerations,  or  some  of  them, 
were  they  known  and  felt,  as  they  cannot  be, 
might  add  to  the  interest  of  that  influence, 
and  even  to  its  force. 

The  best  confirmation,  melancholy  though 
it  be,  of  the  truth  of  these  remarks,  is  fur- 


Mn.  Hemans'a  i><«e* 


PREFACE. 


rushed  by  the  case  of  the  gifted,  accomplish 
ed,  and  amiable  writer  whose  beautiful  illus- 
tration  of  her  own  career — not  to  call  it  a 
prediction  of  her  own  destiny — we  have 
borrowed,  and  whose  works  are  now  for  the 
first  time  gathered  together,  in  the  following 
pages,  we  trust  with  something  like  a  com- 
pleteness corresponding  to  the  exertion  which 
has  been  made  by  the  Publisher,  as  well  as 
to  the  merit  and  charm  of  the  works  them- 
selves.  The  mere  popularity  of  these 
poems, — their  cotemporaneous  notoriety, — 
and  especially  as  indicated  by  the  notice  of  the 
periodical  press, — has  been  perhaps  entirely 
unexampled  in  the  history  of  literature  of 
this  description.  Such  at  least  was  the  re- 
putation of  the  larger  portion  of  them,  all 
her  later  productions  included ;  for  it  is  true, 
as  critics  have  remarked,  that  not  only  the 
debut  which  she  made  in  a  juvenile  volume, 
at  Liverpool,  while  yet  in  her  childhood,  (a 
collection  of  little  effusions  written  between 
the  ages  of  eight  and  thirteen,  to  which  she, 
who  had  the  right  of  decision,  did  not  her- 
self  subsequently  choose  to  give  a  place 
among  her  mature  'works',)  but  even  the 
much  more  elaborate  compositions  of  many 
succeeding  years,  including  the  Restoration 
of  the  Works  of  Art  to  Italy,  (published  in 
1817,)  and  other  poems  studded  as  richly 
with  brilliant  passages,  did  not  have  the  ef- 
fect to  establish  her  reputation.  In  fact,  the 
Records  of  Woman,  which  appeared  only 
some  eight  years  since,  may  be  considered 
aa  having  fairly  laid  its  foundations.  From 
that  time,  however,  as  we  have  said,  the  fa- 
vour her  poems  met  with  was  unexampled 
But  who  will  pretend  that  it  was  no  more 
than  *  favour ;'  that  it  was  but  a  transient  air 
of  popular  whim  which  sustained  them,  but 
gave  no  test  nor  pledge  of  an  inherent  and 
enduring  buoyancy  ?  Who  will  deny  that 
Mrs.  Hemans  has  enjoyed— or,  if  we  use 
the  term  which  is  applicable  to  the  personal 
effort  and  effect,  that  she  has  suffered, — in 
her  own  life-time,  a  true  fame,— even  the 
truest,  dearest,  best,  of  all  its  species, — though 
only  as  the  dim  beginning  of  the  brightness 
which  awaits  her  name  ?  Even  the  extra- 
ordinary newspaper  popularity  (so  to  speak) 
of  her  later  writings,  is  itself  an  indication, 
cm  the  whole,  of  the  fact  It  shows  the  feel- 
ing of  the  people,  which  dictates  the  fashion 
of  the  press ;  and  although  there  are  many 
of  the  works  of  genius  which  may  largely 
attract  the  attention  and  admiration  of  the 


world,  for  a  time,  and  for  various  and  obvious 
reasons,  without  leaving  their  mark  on  tho 
minds  or  hearts  of  men,  others  there  are, 
possessed  of  a  vital  spirit,  that,  once  ap- 
predated,  they  will  not  '  willingly  let  die. 
The  notoriety  of  such  an  auth  j,  as  an 
author,  is  equivalent  to  his  fame.  It  is  aa 
true  of  virtue,  especially,  as  of  vice,  that  it 
'  needs  but  to  be  seen ;'  and  although  thai 
conventional  corporation  which  has  the 
name  of 'the  public,'  merely,  are  not  seldom 
deceived  by  false  pretences,  and  dazzled  by 
brilliant  shows,  the  world  at  large  is  wiser 
than  the  public,  (as  much  as  it  is  wiser  than 
any  individual,)  and  will  see.  It  will  feel, 
too ;  and  acknowledge  what  it  feels.  It  will 
acknowledge  it,  not  in  the  columns  of  the 
newspapers,  to  be  sure,  alone — though  these 
certainly  have  their  part  to  play  —  but  as 
Scott's  was  acknowledged,  when  a  traveller 
states  that  he  found,  in  the  remotest  regions 
of  Hungary,  a  volume  of  one  of  his  delight- 
ful  romances  in  a  peasant's  cabin ;  as  Thom- 
son's was,  when  a  shabby,  soiled  copy  of '  The 
Seasons*  was  noticed,  by  a  man  of  genius, 
lying  on  the  table  of  an  obscure  ale-house, 
in  England.  « That,'  said  he,  '  is  true 
rame  !'  And  it  was,  and  is  so.  Such  is  the 
feme  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  and  John 
Gilpin,  and  the  Pilgrim,  and  poor  Robinson 
Crusoe,  and  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night 
It  is  seen  not  in  the  diamond  editions  that 
glitter  on  the  centre-tables  of  genteel  society, 
or  crowd,  with  everything  else,  the  biblio- 
pole's multifarious  collections  of  rarities;  but 
the  ragged  volumes  of  every  circulating  li- 
brary, grown  old  and  illegible  before  their 
time  by  dint  of  reading — and  the  thumb- 
ed copies  that  lie  on  the  window-ledge  of 
the  poor  man's  cottage,  with  the  leaves  turn- 
ed down  by  the  good  woman  to  '  keep  the 
place* — and  the  song,  or  the  ode,  which  the 
milk-maid  trolls  on  the  hill-side,  or  a  band 
of  freemen  (like  the  descendants  of  the  Ply- 
mouth Pilgrims)  adopt  for  the  festal  com- 
memoration of  their  fathers  glory,—  those 
are  the  quick  pulses  that  prove  the  existence 
of  an  author  in  his  fame.  Su>..,  nas  been 
already  the  success  of  Mrs.  Hcinans  She 
addressed  herself  not  to  passion,  or  fashion, 
or  the  public,  or  any  class  of  the  community 
or  country  she  lived  in,  but  to  human  beings, 
as  such, — to  their  hearts,  a?  well  as  their 
heads — with  truth's  transparent  and  glowing1 
passport  in  her  hand  ; — and  it  was  an  intro- 
duction that  never  yet  failed  to  be  effectual, 


PREFACE. 


nor  ever  will.  Fashion  will  pass  away,  and 
passion  subside  in  satiety ;  and  the  frivolous 
industry  that  ministered  to  the  gratification 
of  the  one,  and  the  false  excitement  that  led 
the  other  to  its  own  destruction,  will  be  de- 
spised first,  and  then  forgotten  ;  but  man  re- 
mains  the  same,  from  first  to  last ;  and  truth, 
which  also  remains,  is  mighty,  and,  worthily 
interpreted,  must  prevail.  How  long  it  may 
be  in  making  its  way,  depends  upon  the  cir- 
cumstances of  each  particular  case.  It  may 
address  the  head,  or  the  heart,  or  both.  It 
may  be  more  or  less  a  matter  of  necessity, 
or  of  luxury  alone.  It  may  be  left  to  the 
recommendation  only  of  its  own  modest 
merit,  or  be  drawn  into  notice  by  fortunate 
crises,  or  casual  accompaniments,  well  adapt- 
ed  to  excite  a  seasonable  sympathy  as  it  were 
at  the  mere  sight  of  its  features,  or  the  sound 
of  its  name,  while  its  absolute  character  is 
yet  unknown.  Meanwhile 

"  The  soul  whence  these  high  gifts  are  shed, 
May  faint  in  solitude," 

exhausted  by  these  same  efforts,  or  borne 
down  by  circumstances  which  have  little  or 
no  connexion  with  them ;  or  it  may  thrive 
as  the  young  tree  that  leans  over  running 
waters,  and  grow  stronger  as  it  gives  more 
fruit,  till  it  lives  to  feel,  in  the  airs  that  reach 
it  from  many  a  far-off  shore,  the  joy  of  its 
own  blossomy  breath  returned  to  it,  and  to 
hear  the  blessing  of  the  poor  pilgrim  who 
has  paused  in  the  dust  of  the  way-side  of  a 
weary  life,  and  the  school-girl's  glee,  and 
the  child's  murmur  of  sweet  delight,  as  they 
turn  down  from  the  heat  of  the  day,  to  be 
refreshed  and  rejoice  together  in  the  gloom 
of  its  green  repose. 

So,  we  say,  has  it  been  already,  and  so, 
we  venture  to  predict,  it  will  be  still,  with 
much  of  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Hemans.  She 
strove  to  be  the  worthy  interpreter  of  worthy 
truth,  deeply  concerning  the  happiness  of  her 
race ;  and  the  vital  spirit  of  virtue  has  in- 
spired her  to  be  equal  to  the  task.  This  is 
her  praise ;  and  it  is  praise  enough ;  not 
that  she  has  spent  her  strength  in  the  rearing 
of  dazzling  fabrics  of  fancy,  as  brilliant  and 
as  useless  us  the  ice-palaces  of  the  northern 
Queen ;  not  that  she  has  chosen  to  indulge 
the  impulse  of  a  wayward  temperament  in 
the  reckless  expression  of  feeling  without 
principle,  and  of  sentiment  without  point ; 
not  that  she  has  dealt  only  in  the  cold  oracles 
of  a  selfish  philosophy,  more  thoughtful  of 
truth,  and  of  proof,  than  of  the  use  of  either 


in  the  wants  of  the  world ;  not  that  she  has 
indulged  unholy  passion  in  her  own  breast, 
or  the  breast  of  any  living  creature ;  nol 
that  she  has  dared  to  exaggerate,  that  at  all 
events  she  might  astonish,  or  deigned  to  be 
mean,  in  the  miserable  hope  of  amusing 
No !  She  has  neither  failed  to  feel  the  high 
dignity  of  her  profession,  nor  forgotten  to 
observe  it.  She  has  made  no  vain  displa 
of  genius  faithless  to  its  trust.  She  has  cul 
tivated  self  as  the  means,  not  consulted  it  as 
the  end.  She  has  been  ambitious  less  tc 
gain  honour,  than  to  give  pleasure,  and  do 
good.  She  has  not  assumed  to  assert  what 
is  doubtful,  or  to  deny  what  is  not.  She  has 
not  dogmatized,  criticized,  or  theorized. 
She  has  not  speculated.  She  has  not  trifled 
She  has  not  flattered,  nor  inflamed.  But  she 
did  strive  to  ennoble  virtue ;  to  encourage  ex- 
ertion ;  to  sustain  hope ;  to  increase  the  happi- 
ness of  men,  by  increasing  their  capacity  to  be 
happy,  and  developing  their  taste  for  what  is 
deserving  of  pursu  it.  She  strove,  in  a  word,  as 
we  began  with  saying,  to  be  the  worthy  inter- 
preter of  worthy  truth.  And  she  was  so. 

This,  we  say,  is  her  praise ;  and  it  is  the 
greater  for  its  rarity.  There  has  been  too 
much  among  us  of  extravagant  excitement,— 
even  from  the  master-minds  of  the  times, — 
as  if  there  were  no  way  of  avoiding  the  cold 
gorgeousness  of  the  mere  phantasmagoria 
of  fancy,  or  the  idle  insipidity  of  a  soulless 
sentimentalism,  or  any  other  of  the  deficient 
styles  of  the  day,  but  by  rushing  headlong 
to  the  opposite  extreme.  Mrs.  Hemans  has 
taken  the  reasonable  medium,  which  her  na- 
tive sense  and  sensibility  alike  approved. 
She  has  shown  us  that  nature  alone  is  strange 
enough,  and  strong  enough,  for  all  the  pur 
poses  of  interest  and  instruction  which  po- 
etry demands :  and  that  its  true  office  is  not 
to  distort,  but  to  describe ;  not  to  magnify, 
but  to  simplify  ;  to  do  justice,  strictly,  to  di- 
vinity, and  to  humanity,  and  to  the  universe 
around  us,  not  by  assuming  to  paint  them 
as  they  should  be,  but  by  faithfully  labouring 
to  interpret  them  as  they  are. 

No  Delphic  frenzy  could  aid  in  the  dis- 
charge of  such  a  service ;  it  would  have 
made  it,  as  in  so  many  other  cases,  (not 
heathen,)  it  has  done,  a  worse  than  worth- 
less labour.  She  wanted  the  powers  of  per- 
ception, and  reflection,  to  appreciate  the 
world  without,  and  the  world  within;  and 
these  she  had,  and  did ;  but  not  as  if  to 
know,  and  to  think,  only,  were  the  life  of 

VOL.  L-3 


PREFACE. 


the  soul.  She  wanted  sensibility, — the  more 
exq  aisite  the  better, — and  the  more  cultivated 
with  all  the  faculties  in  due  proportion,  the 
better, — '  for  what  is  it  to  live,  if  it  be  not 
to  love  ?'  *  She  wanted  to  be  ready  to  feel, 
as  only  the  good  can  do,  '  at  the  sight  of 
whatei  er  is  excellent,  an  emotion  like  that 
which  the  sweet  remembrance  of  infancy 
causes ;' — an  instinct  to  recognize  the  face 
of  the  beautiful,  wherever  it  may  be,  and  to 
rush,  as  it  were,  into  its  arms,  as  the  Syrian 
pilgrim,t  from  all  his  wanderings  returned 
to  his  mother's  home  again,  into  hers.  She 
wanted  enthusiasm  even,  in  the  exercise  of 
these  capacities, — enthusiasm  to  make  the 
exercise  a  delight,  and  to  inspire  her  to  com- 
municate to  other  bosoms  the  rejoicing  of 
her  own.  But  with  all  these,  which  she  had, 
she  needed  no  morbid  disorder.  She  had 
none.  She  knew  that  "  we  preserve  this 
precious  faculty  of  the  heart" — even  this — 
'only  in  proportion  as  we  cultivate  truth, 
and  guard  against  the  exaggerated,  affected, 
or  factitious.'  She  kept  herself  calm  even 
for  the  purpose  of  feeling — of  feeling  right- 
ly— as  much  as  of  seeing  clearly, — knowing 
also  it  is  a  fruitless  torture  we  choose  to  suf- 
fer, 'to  force  ourselves  to  be  false  to  ourselves, 
and  to  everything,  that  we  may  learn  how 
to  be  true :'  that  the  mind  may  faithfully 
mirror,  only  in  a  state  of  composure,  the  im- 
pressions which  meet  it ;  that  the  knowledge, 
the  knowledge  of  all  nature,  and  especially 
of  his  own,  which  the  poet  pursues,  flees 
from  the  rushing  footstep  of  passion,  even  as 
the  haste  of  tiie  hunter  startles  his  game- 
'  And  why,  after  all,' — the  philosopher  we 
have  cited  so  often,  inquires, — '  why  should 
we  be  disturbed  ?  What  should  we  gain  by 
so  much  toil '!  Why  do  we  not  allow  our- 
selves time  to  breathe  ?  The  good  we  fol- 
low'— and  this  is  as  true  in  poetry,  as  in 
philosophy — '  is  nearer  to  the  soul  than  we 
think  ;  it  would  come  to  MS,  if  we  only  con- 
tented to  be  calm.'1 

This  calmness  it  is,  which  eminently  cha- 
racterizes the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Heman^,  and 
which  most  distinguishes  it  from  the  revo- 
lutionary poetry  of  the  revolutionary  age  we 
live  in.  It  is  a  self-possession  which  never 
forsakes  her  in  the  heat  of  her  highest  enthu- 
siasm of  joy  or  sorrow.  There  is  a  divine 
dignity,  unsurpassed  even  by  the  grandeur 
of  Milton,  in  the  rapture  of  an  admiration 


'  Degerando. 


t  The  Crusader's  Return. 


that  seems  almost  to  lift  her  in  her  song,  M 
upon  angels'  pinions, — 

"  To  the  breath 
Of  Dorian  flute,  or  lyre-note  soft  and  slow  :"* 

and  again,  in  the  darkest  mood  of  the  '  ten- 
der gloom'  which  beautifully  tinges  the 
whole  surface  of  her  works,  (like  the  dim 
religious  light  of  an  ancient  forest,  or  of  one 
of  her  own  lonely  fanes — 

"A  mighty  minster,  dim,  and  proud,  and  vast,)" 
there  is  yet  a  more  than  wakeful, — a  cheerful, 
— an  inextinguishably  cheerful  spirit, — an 
immortal  hope, — 'a  calmness  of  the  just,' — 
as  manifest  and  as  majestic  in  herself  as  in 
her  own  '  Alvar's  glorious  mien,'  t  —  and 
making  its  voice  heard  hi  the  midst  of  its 
sorrow,  like  the  martyr's 

"  Sweet  and  solemn-breathing  strain. 
Piercing  the  flames,  untremulous  and  clear." 

We  have  called  it  the  vital  spirit  of  virtue 
which  sustains  her.  Let  us  say,  in  her  own 
language,  again, — 

"  It  is  a  tearful,  yet  a  glorious  thing, 
To  hear  that  hymn  of  martyrdom,  and  know 
That  its  glad  stream  of  melody  could  spring 
Up  from  the  unsounded  gulfs  of  human  woe ! 
Alvar!  Theresa  !— What  is  deep  7  what  strong? 
God's  breath  within  the  soul!" 
For   such   an  exhaustless   reservoir  of  re- 
sources, after  all,  is  the  secret  of  her  inspi- 
ration.    And  this,  too,  is  the  inspiration  of 
truth,  deep-seated,  but  calm,  as  a  lake  of  the 
hills,  in  the  sun-bright  silence  of  the  breast. 
This,  then,  we  regard  as  the  principle  of 
the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Hemaris, — its  truth.  It  im- 
plies much,  in  detail.     It  implies  perception, 
imagination,    sensibility,    self-control,    and 
control  over  language;  and  truth,  and  taste, 
in  all;  for  there  is  need  t.>  km,\v,  Vel,  reason, 
conceive,  and  describe,  and  ;.ll  in  their  due 
proportion  and  sens.m  ;  in  ntiu-r  words,  as 
truth  requires, — since  to  .eel  too  much  'frT 
example)  is  of  course  as  false  to  Nature  as 
to  feel  too  little,  or  not  at  all ;  and  as  regards 
the  party  to  whom  poetry  is  addressed,  to 
be  unable  to  command  the  means  of  convey- 
ing what  is  felt,  by  suitable  language,  is  the 
same,  so  far  as  the  deficiency  exists,  as  if 
there  were  nothing  to  l>e  ronveyed,  and  nc 
effort  made  to  do  it. 

This  characteristic  implies,  then,  that 
what  is  attempted,  is  done.  It  does  not  im- 
ply, necessarily,  the  highest  order  of  genius, 
in  the  popular  sense  of  the  term,  or, — not  to 
settle  the  precedence  of  the  diversities  of 
genius, — it  does  not  imply  every  kind  of  it 


*  League  of  the  Alps 


t  pore»t  Sanctuary. 


PREFACE. 


In  the  Evening  Prayer  at  a  Girls'  School, 
Mrs.  Heinans  may  have  exquisitely  succeed- 
ed in  doing  justice  to  the  trutli  of  a  beauti- 
ful subject  (as  we  think  she  has)  without 
evincing  (as  we  think  she  has  not)  the  uni- 
versal power  of  Shakspeare  to  identify  him. 
self,  intuitively,  as  it  has  been  described 
vith  every  character  which  he  wished  to  re- 
wesent,  "  and  to  pass  from  one  to  another 
ike  the  same  soul  successively  animating 
iitfbrent  bodies."  This  may  be  necessary 
to  a  perfect  dramatic  talent,  but  not  to  every 
species  of  composition ;  the  writer  himself, 
whose  splendid  sketch  we  refer  to,  admits 
that  even  the  universality  of  his  genius 
was  '  perhaps  a  disadvantage  to  his  single 
works?  the  variety  of  his  resources  some- 
times diverting  him  from  applying  them  to 
the  most  effectual  purpose. 

Mrs.  Hemans  did  not  attempt  everything, 
though  her  range  certainly  was  wide  enough 
to  content  the  mere  ambition  of  most  authors. 
Nor  did  she  equally  succeed  in  everything 
she  did  undertake,  especially  in  the  earlier 
part  of  her  career,  while  it  remained  yet  to 
be  decided  by  trial,  to  her  own  satisfaction, 
what  she  was  best  qualified  to  do.  It  is  one 
of  the  traits  she  most  deserves  to  be  praised 
for,  that  she  has  not  attempted  some  things, 
as  much  as  that  she  succeeded  so  eminently 
in  others.  It  were  far  better  for  the  world, 
as  well  as  for  those  who  write  for  it,  if  they 
would  exercise  a  good  deal  more  of  the  mind 
they  do  possess,  in  the  shape  of  a  sound 
judgment  and  a  nice  tact,  to  determine  what 
they  cannot  accomplish,  and  what  they 
should  not  attempt.  There  would  be  far  more 
work  done, — and  far  worthier  of  being  done, 
— and  better  done  ; — and  far  fewer  of  those 
abortive  abuses  which  consist  in  the  jug- 
gling torture,  and  end  often  in  the  sacrifice, 
of  real  poetical  power,  with  only  the  reward 
of  the  open-mouthed  gaze  of  the  moh, — up- 
turned for  a  moment, — who  are  silly  enough 
to  surround  the  stage  which  it  plays  its 
pranks  on.  There  is  no  necessity  of  parti- 
cularizing those  portions  of  the  works  of  our 
authoress,  in  which  she  has  succeeded  best, 
or  least,  upon  this  principle  of  following  her 
bent  Suffice  it  to  say  that  she  made  it  a 
study— at  the  expense  of  experience,  of 
course  -  a  serious  and  conscientious  study ; 
and  thai  she  finally  devoted  herself,  for  the 
most  part,  with  a  s«gacity  and  a  self-dcniaj 
equally  worthy  of  all  admiration,  to  the  de- 
partment she  found  herself  to  be  fitted  for. 


Thus,  too,  did  she  follow  out  the  principle 
of  her  genius,  its  truth.  She  was  true  to 
herself,  as  well  as  to  nature  ;  true  to  her  own 
nature,  we  should  rather  say ;  and  because 
she  was  so,  in  no  small  degree  it  is,  that  she 
achieved,  in  those  departments,  a  success 
unrivalled  in  the  history  of  the  literature  to 
which  we  allude. 

It  might  be  expected  that  poetry  to  which 
these  remarks  were  applicable,  should  be 
strongly  distinguished  by  its  simplicity  ;  and 
it  is  so.  Truth  is  always  simple,  as  every 
species  of  affectation  necessarily  is  other- 
wise,  and  stands  directly  in  its  light.  These  j 
compositions  are  as  simple  as  they  are  calm  ', 
and  serene.  They  will  please  therefore,  it 
least,  when  they  do  not  surprise ;  nay,  in 
the  midst  of  all  the  whirl  and  turmoil  of  the 
machinery  of  the  poetry-factory  of  these 
days,  they  will  surprise,  even,  by  their  serene 
simplicity.  They  did  so,  especially  at  their 
first  appearance  ;  and  it  is  only  because  Mrs. 
Hemans  herself  has  accustomed  the  public 
to  this  rarest  of  the  novelties,  that  the  im- 
pression of  its  charm  may  have  been  in  any 
degree  even  transiently  disparaged,  as  by 
the  charge,  for  example,  of  monotony.  An 
accomplished  writer,  to  whom  we  are  proba- 
bly more  indebted  in  this  country,  than  to  any 
other  individual,  next  to  the  authoress  her 
self,  for  the  early  acquaintance  we  have  made 
with  her  poems,  has  well  illustrated  her  mer- 
it in  this  respect,  as  compared  with  the  noisy 
and  difficult  jargon  of  many  who  have  gone 
before  her,  by  reference  to  the  anecdote  of 
Napoleon's  coronation,  as  emperor,  in  the 
cathedral  of  Notre  Dame.  The  fondness 
of  the  French  for  parade  and  effect,  is  well 
known,  and  this  was  the  most  brilliant  era 
of  the  great  man's  career.  The  Parisians, 
to  astonish  everybody,  filled  the  orchestra 
with  eighty  harps,  which  were  struck  toge- 
ther with  unequalled  skill.  'The  whole 
world*  was  delighted.  But  presently  enter- 
ed the  Pope.  A  few  of  his  singers,  who 
came  with  him  from  Rome,  received  him 
with  the  Tu  «s  Petrus  of  Scarlatti.  Not  an 
instrument  was  heard  ;  there  were  no  fash- 
ionable flourishes ;  but  the  simple  majesty 
of  the  old-fashioned  air,  '  annihilated  at 
once  the  whole  effect  of  the  preceding  fan- 
faronade.'* We  have  had  a  liberal  allow- 
ance of  instrumental  in  tlie  poetry  of  our 


*  Nnrth  Americnn  Ri'viexv.  for  April,  1827.  We  need 
rearccly  say,  that  allusion  in  made  above  to  the  editor 
of  tl»-  TiciHtmi  eclniui)  of  thu  KurliiT  Pacing  of  Mrs.  He 
mans. 


PREFACE. 


times ;  and  the  Voice  of  Spring  is  worth 
the  whole  of  it  What  a  strength  is  in  its 
simplicity !  What  power  from  lips  that 
seem  to  tremble,  as 

"  They  strive  to  epeak, 
Like  a  frail  harp-string,  shaken  by  the  storm !" 

So  spake  the  Switzf'»  Wife,  when  the  Spells 
of  Home  inspired  her : — 

"Ay,  pale  she  stood,  but  with  an  eye  of  light. 

And  took  her  fair  child  to  her  holy  breast. 
And  lifted  her  sort  voice,  that  gather' d  might 

As  it  found  language  :— "  Are  we  thus  oppressed  7 
Then  must  we  rise  upon  our  mountain-sod. 
And  man  must  arm,  and  woman  call  on  God  !" 

"  I  know  what  thou  wouldat  do,— and  be  it  done , 
Thy  soul  is  darken'd  wilh  its  fears  for  me. 

Trust  me  to  Heaven,  my  husband  !  This,  thy  son. 
The  babe  whom  I  have  borne  thee,  must  be  free! 

And  the  sweet  memory  of  our  pleasant  hearth 

May  well  give  strength— if  aught  be  strong  on  earth. 

"  Thou  hast  been  brooding  o'er  the  silent  dread 
Of  my  desponding  tears ;  now  lift  once  more, 

My  hunter  of  the  hills,  thy  stately  head, 
And  let  thine  eagle  glance  my  joy  restore ! 

I  can  bear  all,  but  seeing  thee  subdued,— 

Tuke  to  thee  back  thine  own  undaunted  mood. 

"  Go  forth  beside  the  waters,  and  along 

The  chamois-paths,  and  through  the  forest!  go; 
And  tell,  in  burning  words,  thy  tale  of  wrong 

To  the  brave  hearts  that  'midst  the  hamlets  glow. 
God  shall  be  with  thee,  my  beloved  !— Away ! 
Kless  but  thy  child,  and  leave  me,— I  can  pray!" 
He  pprang  up  like  a  warrior-youth  awaking 

To  clarion-sounds  upon  the  ringing  air: 
He  caught  her  to  his  breast,  while  proud  tears,  breaking 

From  his  dark  eyes,  fell  o'er  her  braided  hair,— 
And  "  Worthy  art  thou,"  was  his  joyous  cry, 
"That  man  for  thee  should  gird  himself  to  die." 

Here,  it  must  be  confessed,  after  all,  is  the 
forte  of  Mrs.  Hemans, — the  fireside;  and 
we  come  now  to  say,  in  a  word,  that  we 
consider  her  not  only,  as  the  Edinburgh  Re- 
view  pronounced  her  some  six  years  since, 
1  The  most  touching  and  accomplished  writer 
of  occasional  verses  that  our  literature  has 
yet  to  boast  o/,' — splendid  as  that  compli- 
ment is, — but  as  the  model,  in  every  respect, 
of  what  a  female  writer  of  poetry  should  be. 
Her  poetry,  itself,  is  the  model  of  female 
poetry,  so  to  speak.  It  has  not  simply  a 
negative  merit,  of  course,  though  that  in 
onr  times  is  something  to  be  distinguished 
by,  if  not  to  boast  of;  the  merit  of  being 
free  from  the  characteristic  faults  or  foibles 
of  men  or  women  ;  of  being  perfectly  amia- 
ble as  well  as  decorous,  and  meek  and  mod- 
est in  all  the  fervour  of  its  earnestness. 
This  fervour  itself,  pure  as  it  is,  is  an  ex- 
quisite quality  which  belongs,  in  its  true 
fineness,  only  to  a  woman's  heart.  Mrs. 
Hemans  had  a  generous  share  of  it  in  her 


f  temperament ;  and  she  has  poured  an 

!  ed  it  out,  strong  and  fresh  as  the  rushing 

waters  of  her  own  'streams  and  founts'  of 

the  Spring,  when  they  burst 

"  From  their  sparry  caves, 
And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves  " 

What  devotedness, — what  fearless,  uncaU 
culating,  uncompromising  confidence, — the 
confidence  of  the  heart, — of  a  woman's  heart 
— breathe,  as  with  a  living  ardour  of  the 
warm  lips  themselves,  in  the  agony  of  Inez  at 
the  Auto  da  Fe,  when  the  '  breathless  rider* 
found  her  by  the  gleam  of  the  midnight  fire, 

"And  dash'd  off  fiercely  those  who  camo  to  part. 
And  rush'd  to  that  pale  girl,  and  clasp'd  her  to  his  heart! 


And  for  a  moment  all  around  gave  way 

To  that  full  burst  of  pagsion  !— on  his  breast. 

Like  a  bird  panting  yet  from  fear,  she  lay. 

But  blest— in  misery's  very  lap— yet  blest! — 

Oh  love,  love,  strong  as  death  !— from  such  an  hour 

Pressing  out  joy  by  thine  immortal  power. 

Holy  and  fervent  love  !  had  earth  but  rest 

For  thee  and  thine,  this  world  were  all  too  fair! 

How  could  we  thence  be  wean'd  to  din  without  despair  1 
But  she— as  falls  a  willow  from  the  storm. 
O'er  its  own  river  streaming— thus  reclined 
On  the  youth's   bosom  hung  her  fragile  form 
And  clasping  tirms.  PO  passionately  twined 
Around  his  neck— with  such  a  trusting  fold, 
A  full  deep  sense  of  safety  in  their  hold, 
As  if  naught  earthly  might  th'  embrace  unbind  ! 
Alas!  a  child's  fond  faith,  believing  still 

1U  mother's  breast  beyond  the  lightning's  reach  to  kill ! 
What  u  picture  is  this !     How  do  we  fee> 

that  only  one  who  has  herself  a  heart,  and 

such  a  heart,  can  render  such  justice  to 

"  The  strife 

Of  love,  faith,  fear,  and  that  vain  dream  of  life, 
Within  her  woman's  breast!" 

flow  do  we  seem  to  hear,  as  her  hero '  woos 
her  back  to  life,'  in  his  frenzy,  her  'soft 
ooice  in  his  soul .'"  How  do  we  see,  again, 

"  Her  large  tears  gush 

Like  blood-drops  from  a  victim  ;  with  swift  rain 
Bathing  the  bosom  where  she  lean'd  that  hour, 
9s  if  her  life  wouldmelt  in  that  o'erswelling  shower" 

Not  an '  inalienable  trust'  is  this,  alone  ; 
but  what  an  exquisite  tenderness  is  mingled 
with  it ;  and  how  does  that  trait  pervade 
this  poetry  everywhere,  till  it  must  melt  the 
manhood  even  of  the  '  stoics  of  the  wooa,' 
the  savages  in  •sentiment,  who  would  have 
been  themselves  ashamed  —  forsooth '  —  to 
•  stain'  their  Indian  page  '  with  grief.'  Yet 
have  they  wept  with  the  Bride  of  the  Greek 
Isle,  when  leaving  the  vine  at  her  father'! 
door,  and  the  myrtle  once  called  her  own, 

"  She  turn'd— and  her  mother's  gaze  brought  b  «k 
Each  hue  of  her  childhood's  faded  track. 
Oh  !  hush  the  song,  and  let  her  lean 
Flow  to  the  dream  of  her  early  years! 
Holy  and  pure  are  the  drops  that  fall 
Wher  the  young  bride  goes  from  her  fathers'  hiD 
Vol..  I_3 


PREFACE. 


Aie  goes  unto  love  yet  untried  and  new. 

She  parts  from  love  which  hath  still  been  true  ; 

Mute  be  the  song  and  the  choral  strain, 

Till  her  heart's  deep  well-spring  IB  clear  again ! 

She  wept  on  her  mother's  faithful  breast. 

Like  a  babe  that  sobs  itself  to  rest ; 

She  wept— yet  laid  her  hand  the  while 

In  his  that  waited  her  dawning  smile, 

Her  souTs  affianced,  nor  cherish'd  less 

Par  the  gvsK  of  nature's  tenderness  I" 

These,  we  say,  are  the  fervour,  and  the 
trust,  and  the  tenderness,  of  a  woman's  po- 
etry Shakspearc  himself,  perfect  as  even 
nis  female  characters  are, — as  for  as  they  are 
not  female,  but  only  human,— -did  not  write 
thus,  and  could  not,  for  though  he  was  like 
all  other  men,  excepting  that  he  resembled 
nobody,  as  Hazlitt  describes  him,  he  was 
not  like  woman,  and  he  could  enter  into  the 
feeling  of  her  character, — the  female  feelingi 
— m  some  respects  perhaps  but  little  better 
than  Milton  himself.  It  is  no  reproach  to 
him  that  he  could,  not,  any  more  than  it  is 
to  Mrs.  Hemans  that  she  could  not  write  like 
him.  It  may,  however,  occasion  n  dramatic 
deficiency, — more  or  less  perceptible  to  the 
reader,  as  he  or  she  is  possessed  more  or  less 
of  the  quality  itself  in  question, — wherever 
the  play  moves  over  ground  which  does  not 
belong  to  this  genius  of  man:  and  hence 
Shakspeare  appears  best  upon  his  own  ground, 
and  so  far  forth  as  he  represents  the  influ- 
ence, rather  than  the  absolute  existence,  of 
the  other  sex.  And  the  same  is  true  of  her, 
and  sfher  heroes.  If  it  be  true  to  a  greater 
extent,  on  one  hand,  she  has  gained  and 
saved  something,  on  the  other,  by  the  exer- 
cise, in  this  instance,  again,  of  that  excellent 
tact — itself  almost  a  characteristic  of  the  sex 
— which  she  has  generally  employed  to  so 
good  purpose  in  the  choice  of  subjects  as 
well  as  of  style,  and  not  less  in  forbearance 
than  in  effort.  She  has  avoided,  almost  en- 
tirely, mere  masculine  materiel,  and  has  gra- 
dually abandoned  even  those  topics  of  gene- 
ral interest,  which  do  not  actually  require 
the  exertion  of  her  more  peculiar  power.  If 
she  leaves  the  fireside  occasionally,  she  does 
not  travel  ir;  male  disguise, — still  less  does 
she  cease  to  be  what  she  is.  Her  Household 
gods  go  with  her  wherever  she  goes, — and 
the  sound  of  their  parting  footsteps  is  audi- 
ble with  her  own.  With  the  wreck  and  the 
treasures  of  the  deep,  'mid  gold  and  gems, 
and  buried  isles,  and  towers  o'erthrown,  we 
find 

"  The  lost  and  lovelr ! — those  for  whom 
The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so  long !" 


She  brings  her  'flowers'  for  crowns  to  th» 
early  dead,  and  for 

"  Brides  to  wear, — 
They  were  born  to  blush  in  their  shining  hair!" 

She  sends  the  Crusader  to  Syrian  deserts, 
that  he  may  find  his  way  back  again  to 
'some  fond  mother's  glance,'  that  'o'er  Aim, 
too,  brooded  in  his  early  years.'  She  makes 
the  conqueror  in  his  sleep,  'a  child  again." 
The  Traveller,  at  the  source  of  the  Nile, 
thinks  of  the  wild  sweet  voices  of  the  streams 

in 

"Haunts  of  play. 

Where  brightly  through  the  beechen  shade. 
Their  waters  glanced  away." 

Her  trumpet  sounds  for  the  lover  to  quit  his 
marriage  altar,  and 

"The  mother  on  her  first-born  son, 
Looka  with  a  boding  eye  ;" 

and  it  is  still  '  woman  on  the  field  of  battle ' 
itself.  She  felt  that  here  was  her  empire. 
She  knew  that  it  was  the  spells  of  home 
which  inspired  her,  and  she  clung  even  to 
the  forsaken  hearth,  and  to  the  graves  them- 
selves, of  the  household.  The  element  of  her 
poetry  was  the  warm  air  of  the  fireside. 
The  faith,  the  trust,  the  fear,  the  love,  even 
the  anguish,  of  a  woman's  heart,  sustained 
her, — and  she  revived  with  the  'taste  of 
tears,'* — and  again,  and  again,  while  yet  she 
weeps,  like  the  Bride  of  the  Isle,  till  her  voice 
seems  lost  with  the  choking  swell,  sweeter 
and  clearer  than  ever  do 

"  Her  lovely  thoughts  from  their  cells  find  way. 
In  the  sudden  flow  of  the  plaintive  lay." 

We  say,  then,  the  distinctive  character  of 
her  poetry  is  female — and  in  its  being  in 
that  department  just  what  it  should  be.  It 
is  all  the  records  of  woman ;  all,  the  songs 
of  the  affections.  It  is  the  poetry  of  the 
household,  the  poetry  of  the  heart. 

Nor  let  us,  in  this  connexion,  lose  sight 
altogether  of  the  aid  she  derived  from  her 
personal  experience,  her  experience  as  a  wife 
and  a  mother,  and  still  more,  the  Jessons 
which  circumstances,  more  individual,  must 
have  taught  her.  We  will  not  go  largely 
into  these,  but  it  is  essential  to  a  right  appre- 
ciation  of  her  poetical  character,  that  as  much 
of  her  history  as  a  popular  foreign  writer 
has  lately  communicated,  should  be  known.t 

*  Forest  Sanctuary. 

t  "  Felicia  Dorothea  Browne  was  born  in  Liverpool, 
in  a  small  quaint-looking  house  in  St.  Anne  s>reet,  now 
standing,  old  fashioned  and  desolate,  in  the  midst  of  the 
newer  buildings  by  which  it  is  surrounded.  Our  ab- 
staining from  any  attempt  minutely  to  trace  her  history, 
requires  no  apology ;  it  is  enough  to  say  that  when  sh« 


10 


PREFACE. 


•  They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in 
eong,'  was  Shelley's  maxim;  and  Mrs.  He- 
mans  did  more  '.lian  to  adopt  it  as  a  theme.* 
She  lived  it  her  Mfe  long ;  and,  like  her  Va- 
lencian  heroine,  she  took  her  toils  nobly  on 
her,  knowing  how 

''  Strength  is  born 

In  the  deep  silence  of  long-suffering  heart*. 
Not  amidst  joy;" 

though  mourning,  with  the  Sicilian,  as  she 

did, 

"That  there  should  be 

Things,  which  we  love  with  such  deep  tenderness, 
B  it,  through  that  love,  to  learn  how  much  of  woe 
L  *ells  in  one  hour  like  this." 

Yet  loved  she  on,  and  learned  on,  till  her 
jioetry  has  been  imbued  with  such  a  spirit 
of  the  heart,  as  could  seem  only,  like  the  dy- 
ing breath  of  the  trampled  violet,  to  have 
been  crushed  out  of  it  in  the  act  of  its  ex- 
tinction. There  was  no  need  of  affectation. 
She  had  in  herself,  again,  the  truth.  Siic 
looked  in  her  heart,  and  wrote,  f 

Much  might  be  said  of  the  perfect  purity 
and  dignity  of  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Hcmans  ; 
but  these  are  inferable  from  the  sketch  we 
have  given  already,  as  general  as  it  is.  She 
has  not  been  surpassed  in  these  attributes  by 
any  writer  of  the  severest  school.  It  was 
the  result  with  her,  of  an  ambition  of  the 
highest  order — a  deep  religious  principle — no 
iiiMrr  thun  .VI i lion's  'to  be  raised  from  the 
heal  of  youth  or  the  vapours  of  wine  ;*  *  nor 
t<»  be  obtained  by  the  invocation  of  Dame 
Memory  and  her  siren  daughters ;  but  by 
devout  prayer  to  that  eternal  Spirit  who  can 
enrich  with  all  utterance  and  knowledge, 
and  sends  out  his  seraphim  with  the  hallow- 
ed fire  of  his  altar,  to  touch  and  purify  the 
lips  of  whom  he  pleases.'  To  such  a  mind 
'here  was  a  beauty  in  every  thing  which 
-Jod  has  created ;  and  although  it  was  no 
3rror  of  hers,  as  it  has  been  of  so  many  be- 
fore her,  to  search  out  the  materials  of  poetry 
with  such  microscopic  eyes  as  to  degrade  its 
noble  office — describing  the  interior  of  a  cot- 
tage, (as  a  witty  critic  remarked  of  Crabbe,) 

was  very  young,  her  family  removed  from  Liveipool  to 
the  neighbourhood  of  St.  Asaph,  in  North  Wales;  that 
•he  married  at  a  very  early  age — that  her  married  life, 
after  the  birth  of  five  sons,  was  clouded  by  the  estrange- 
ment of  her  husband — that,  on  the  death  of  her  mother, 
with  whom  she  had  resided,  she  broke  up  hei  establish- 
ment in  Wales,  and  removed  to  Wavertree,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Liverpool — from  whence,  after  n  resi- 
dence of  about  three  years,  she  again  removed  to  Dub- 
in — her  last  resting  place." Jitkinawn. 

*  See  The  Dioer. 

t  Sir  P:iilip  Sydney 


like  a  person  sent  there  to  distrain  for  the 
lease,  and  recording  a  rent  in  a  counterpane 
as  an  event  in  history — none  could  be  more 
alive  than  she  was  to  the  respectability,  so 
to  speak,  of  all  that  reason  discovers  and  reli- 
ligion  reveals,  of  the  spiritual  meanings  of 
the  universe  around  us,  in  the  least  as  well 
as  the  grandest  of  its  parts.  She  has  told  ui 
where  we  may  trace  these  meanings  in  our 
daily  paths.  She  had  traced  them  herself. 
She  had  looked  upon  nature  with  eyes  of 
love,  that  clothed  it,  in  all  its  shapes,  with  the 
mind's  mystery,  like  the  '  faith,  touching  all 
things  with  hues  of  heaven.'  No  author  has 
luxuriated  in  the  beauties  of  the  physical 
world  with  a  keener  relish  than  she  has ;  and 
none  has  come  nearer  to  raising  them  as  it 
were  into  life  itself,  by  the  connexion  with 
the  lessons  of  lire  which  she  gives  them. 
There  is  no  little  genius  to  be  exercised  in 
prescrvi:i«r  the  delicate  relation  between  the 
dignity  of  humanity,  of  mind,  time,  eternity, 
virtue,  truth,  of  God  himself, — the  highest 
themes  of  song,  in  a  word,— on  one  hand, 
and  that  of  the  subordinate  subject-matter, 
equally  to  be  regarded  in  its  way,  on  the 
other.  This  relation  she  has  seen  and  re. 
^pected.  All  her  imagery,  borrowed  from 
nature,  rich  as  it  is,  is  made,  like  oriental 
flowers,  to  mean  something,  and  to  utter  it 
in  a  language  of  its  own.  It  is  a  sort  of 
trellice-work,  for  thought  and  affection  to 
climb  upon.  The  Palm  Tree,  for  example, 
is  laden,  as  it  were,  with  a  moral,  as  with 
clusters  of  golden  grapes. 

In  respect  to  the  religious  dignity  which 
she  attached  to  her  profession,  the  late  wri- 
ter in  the  Athenaeum,  referred  to  above, 
quotes  from  a  Icttei  winch  lay  before  him  : — 
1 1  have  now,'  she  says,  '  passed  through  the 
feverish  and  somewhat  visionary  state  of 
mind  often  connected  with  the  passionate 
study  of  art  in  early  life  ;  deep  affections  and 
deep  sorrows  seem  to  have  solemnized  my 
whole  being,  and  I  now  feel  as  if  bound  to 
higher  and  holier  tasks,  which,  though  I  may 
occasionally  lay  aside,  I  could  not  long  wan- 
der  from  without  some  sense  of  dereliction. 
I  hope  it  is  no  self-delusion,  but  I  cannot 
help  sometimes  feeling  as  if  it  were  my  tru« 
task  to  enlarge  the  sphere  of  sacred  poetry, 
and  extend  its  influence.  When  you  re- 
ceive  my  volume  of  '  Scenes  and  Hymns,' 
you  will  see  what  I  mean  by  enlarging  its 
sphere,  though  my  plan  as  yet  is  very  im« 
perfectly  developed.'  How  muct  she  ae 


PREFACE. 


11 


coinplished  in  this  noblest  sphere  of  her  la- 
bours, will  be  seen  in  the  following  pages. 
How  much  remained  to  be  done,  which  she 
might  have  accomplished,  is  a  reflection  that 
must  add  a  new  poignancy  to  the  sorrow  her 
death  has  occasioned 

She  speaks  here  of  the  passionate  study  of 
art  in  early  life.  And  this  is  not  the  least 
of  her  merits, — that  she  did  study,  early  and 
late,  her  whole  life  long,  making  poetry,  as 
it  deserves,  no  less  a  subject  of  science  than 
a  gift  of  genius.  She  was  above  the  misera- 
ble disparagement  of  labour,  and  learning, 
and  practice,  and  the  advice  of  the  world. 
She  profited  continually  by  them  all ;  and 
the  critics  have  in  no  respect  rendered  her 
fuller  justice,  than  in  noticing  the  astonish- 
ing progress  indicated  by  her  successive  pro- 
ductions. There  are  embryo  traces,  indeed, 
of  her  peculiar  mind,  and  particularly  of  her 
fervid  temperament  and  rich  imagination, 
even  in  the  juvenile  volume  alluded  to  above 
— and  passages  of  the  Sceptic  are  scarcely 
surpassed  in  strength  by  anything  which 
has  followed  them — but,  in  general,  the  con- 
tinuity of  character,  so  to  speak,  from  first 
to  last,  is  little  more  than  sufficient  to  show, 
at  tiie  same  time  with  the  identity  of  tho 
intellect,  the  wonder-working  effect  of  what 
Milton  calls  '  industrious  and  select  reading, 
steady  observation,  insight  into  all  seemly 
and  generous  arts  and  affairs.'  A  glance  at 
her  i  uitcs,  mottoes,  and  translations  alone, 
wi!l  roiivry  the  notion  of  a  learning  in  the 
lancruaovs  which  would  seem  to  be  result 
eii<>i!,«T|i,  in  itself,  for  the  toil  of  a  life  like 
hrr-j.  Hence  much  of  her  glowing  facility 
and  felicity  of  language.  Much  of  it,  indeed, 
— the  unrivalled  elegance,  (for  there  is  no- 
thing in  English  literature  which  exceeds 
her  in  this  regard,)  the  exquisite  grace,  the 
indescribable  tact  of  phraseology, — these 
were  original  with  her,  and  were  especially 
among1  thr>  female  traits  of  her  genius.  Even 
these,  however,  were  improved  with  the 
rest,  til!  by  dint  of  discipline,  added  to  na- 
tive ability,  she  came  at  length  to  be  mis- 
tress of  an  inimitable  finishing-power, — a 
power  of  doing  precise  justice  to  the  niceties 
of  conception  with  which  perhaps  the  mind 
of  a  woman  only  is  conversnnt, — a  minia- 
ture minuteness, — such  as  nothing  short  of 
the  powrr  itself  would  enable  us  properly  to 
describe.  The  enthusiasm  of  Mrs.  Hemans 
made  even  her  industry  indefatigable.  Those 
who  affect  her  more  attractive  qualities,  will 


do  well  to  imitate  this.  It  requires  no  small 
share,  in  the  outset,  to  study  her  works  at- 
tentively enough — especially  as  they  are 
read  cursorily  with  such  eager  interest — to 
appreciate  the  credit  she  deserves  in  this  re- 
spect It  was  the  most  difficult  result  of  her 
labour  that  she  succeeded  in  concealing  the 
effort,  while  she  proved  the  effect. 

Tims,  then,  is  her  poetry  distinguished. 
Others  have  possessed  her  imagination,  her 
taste,  her  ambition,  her  art,  her  glowing 
feeling,  her  Christian  principle ;  but  they  did 
not  all  undertake,  and  they  were  not  all  com 
potent  if  they  had,  to  devote  the  exercise  oJ 
every  energy,  effectually,  to  the  one  object 
of  her  labours, — the  composition  of  a  model 
which  might  perfectly  represent  what  fe- 
male poetry  is  and  should  be.  This  Mrs. 
Hemans  has  done.  She  had  a  genius  wor- 
thy to  be  the  representative  of  that  of  her 
sex, — and  she  sounded  the  depths  of  its  capa- 
cities of  exertion  and  suffering,  and  trained 
them,  with  every  faculty,  to  do  justice  to 
herself,  her  sex,  her  race,  her  Creator,  in  the 
discharge  of  the  true  office  of  the  profession 
she  chose, — the  illuminating  or  figuring  forth 
of  truth,  (as  Sydney  describes  it,)  and  espe- 
cially of  the  truth  most  worthy  of  the  work, 
— which  it  most  concerns  men,  as  such,  to 
feel  the  force  of, — and  which,  also,  she  was 
herself  best  qualified  so  to  set  forth — '  by  the 
speaking  picture  of  poetry.'  She  wrote  not 
only  as  none  but  a  woman  could  write,  but 
so  wrote  as  that,  in  her  department,  neither 
her  predecessors,  or  successors,  of  her  own 
sex,  have  been,  or  will  be,  able  to  surpass  her. 

In  introducing  her  works  entire,  for  the 
first  time,  it  may  be  proper  to  allude  to  the 
interest  she  has  been  frequently  known  to 
express  in  our  peculiar  institutions  and  pros- 
pects, and  the  gratification  she  derived  from 
the  evidence,  to  which  she  could  not  be  blind, 
that  her  productions  were  nowhere  more 
cordially  welcomed,  or  more  fully  appreci- 
ated, than  here.  For  the  numerous  compo- 
sitions founded  on  American  themes,  such  a 
reception  was  rather  to  be  anticipated,  as  a 
mark  of  the  pleasure  we  felt  in  the  worthy 
illustration  of  our  national  topics,  and  espe- 
cially by  the  talent  of  one  who  by  no  means 
deemed  it  necessary  to  be  faithless  to  her 
own  country,  or  to  any  thing  else  her  own, 
that  she  might  do  justice  to  the  world  at 
large  beside.  But  this  was  not  her  sole  re. 
commendation  to  us.  Five  years  since  an 
English  authority  of  note  suggested  that  'her 

VOL.  I.— 1 


PREFACE. 


peculiar  beauties  were  first  pointed  out  to  us 
by  our  trans-atlantic  brethren.'  There  was 
great  truth  in  the  remark ;  and  the  fact  is 
as  creditable  to  one  party,  as  the  admission 
of  it  is  to  the  other.  She  has  lost  nothing 
among  us  in  later  days,  and  her  American 
fame  was  dear  to  the  last.  The  feeling  with 
which  the  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 
is  regarded,  was  rightly  represented  to  her 
during  the  last  season,  by  a  gentleman  from 
New-England,  who  called  on  her  at  Dub- 
Un,  and  the  enthusiasm  of  gratification  she 
expressed  to  him,  was  such  as  the  composi- 
tion itself  might  lead  us  to  expect.  She  had 
composed  that  poem  in  the  glow  of  a  burst 
of  admiration,  immediately  awakened  by  the 
chance  perusal  of  a  part  of  some  Plymouth 
Oration  (as  it  seemed  to  be)  which  she  found 
on  a  scrap  of  an  old  newspaper.  '  And  I  can 
tell  you  the  portion  of  it  we  like  best,'  our 
friend  added, — 

"And  they  Itft  unstained,  what  there  they  found  ;"— 

'  Ay,  freedom  to  worship  God  r  she  quickly 
subjoined  ;  '  the  truth  was  the  boat  part  of  it, 
I  know : — I  rejoice  that  it  is  IK*  and  that 
you  so  understand  it' 

We  trust  it  will  be  so  understood,  as  long 
M  the  old  Rock  itself  shall  stand.  To  tell  the 
truth   of  that  grand  occasion,  was   praise 
enough  for  any  poet ;  it  was  a  truth  stronger 
than  fiction  ever   was,  and    which   fiction 
could  but  degrade.     But  we  know  her  more 
than  as  the  poet  of  the  Pilgrims.     We  shall 
cherish  the  fame  which  was  born  with  us ; 
she  has  trusted  it  safely  to  our  hands.     We 
shall   remember  her  as  she  would   herself 
have  desired  to  be  remembered,  in  all '  words 
that  breathe,  and  thoughts  that  burn.'    She 
asks, — let  us  hear  her  once  more, — 
"  Whon  will  ye  think  of  me,  my  friends? 
When  will  ye  think  of  me  1 — 
When  the  last  red  light,  the  farewell  of  day, 
From  the  rock  and  the  river  is  passing  away— 
When  the  air  with  a  deep'ning  hush  is  fraught, 
Ana  the  heart  grows  burden'd  with  tender  thought. 
Then  let  it  be ! 


When  will  ye  think  of  me,  kind  friends  1 

When  will  ye  think  of  me  ? 
When  the  rose  of  the  rich  mid-suminor  time 
Is  fill'd  with  the  hues  of  its  glorious  p  ime— 
When  ye  gather  its  bloom,  as  in  bright  hours  fled. 
From  the  walks  where  my  ''outsteps  no  more  may 
tread — 

Then  Kit  it  ae ! 
When  will  ye  think  of  me,  sweet  friends? 

When  will  ye  think  of  me  ? 
When  the  sudden  tears  o'erflow  your  ey* 
At  the  sound  ofsome  olden  melody. 
When  yo  hear  the  voice  of  a  mountain  stream 
When  ye  feel  the  charm  of  a  poet's  dream 

Then  let  it  be ! 
Thus  let  my  memory  be  with  you,  friends! 

Thus  ever  think  of  me ! 
Kindly  and  gently,  but  as  of  one 
For  whom  'tis  well  to  be  fled  and  gone— 
As  of  a  bird  from  a  chain  unbound. 
As  of  a  wanderer  whose  home  is  found- 
So  let  it  be!" 

Ay,  and  so  will  it  be.  It  will  be  with  the 
thousands  of  hearts  which  have  been,  lika 
Sydney's,  'moved  more  than  with  a  trumpet,' 
now  by  the  soft  sweetness  that  pleaded  for 
room  in  the  Pagan  Heaven,  'mid  all  the 
4  nobler  dead,'  for  the  unknown  '  most  loved,' 

"  Of  whom  fame  speuks  not,  with  her  clarion  voice, 
In  regal  halls;" 

and  now  with  the  majestic  spirit  of  the  strain 
that  gives  a  '  memory  on  the  mountains,'  to 
the  brave  bands  who  pledged  their  faith  for 
freedom — 

"  Where  the  light 

Of  day's  last  footstep  bathes  in  burning  gold 
Great  Right's  cliffs ;  and  where  Mount  Pilate's  height 
Casts  o'er  his  starry  lake  the  darkness  of  his  might." 

It  will  be,  as  long  as  the  deep  yearnings 
which  she  knew  so  well  to  express,  and  to 
address,  shall  remain  with  men.  It  will 
be,  in  the  Hour  of  Prayer,  and  the  Hour  of 
Death ;  and  the  Dreams  of  the  Better  Land 
will  be  lighted  with  hues  of  the  haunting 
beauty  of  remembered  visions  of  the  song. 
It  will  be  while  yet  the  honour  of  heroic 
virtue  shall  live  upon  human  lips,  and  till 
the  holy  love,  in  human  hearts  FO  sorely 
tried,  shall  find,  after  all  its  weaiy  tossing 
upon  time's  waives,  a  home  where  it  may 

rest 

"  remembering  not 

Toe  moaning  of  the  wa  1" 


CONTENTS. 


The  Restoration  of  the  Works  of  Art  to  Italy,  17 

The  Abencerrage 25 

The  Widow  of  Crescentins 39 

The  Last  Banquet  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra...  47 

Alaric  in  Italy 48 

TbflWife  of  Asdrnbal 60 

HeliodoruK  in  the  Temple 51 

Might  Scene  in  Genoa 51 

The  Troubadour  and  Richard  Cceur  de  Lion...  53 

The  Death  of  Conradin 65 

TRANSLATIONS   FROM  CAMOENS  AND  OTHEH 
POETS. 

High  in  the  glowing  heav- 
ens,   56 

Wrapt  in  sad  musings 67 

If  in  thy  glorious  home 57 

This  mountain  scene 57 

Those  eyes  whose  love 57 

Fair  Tajo  !  thou,  whose 67 

Thou,  to  whose  power 67 

Spirit  belo ved  !  whose  wing  58 

How  strange  a  fate  in  love..  68 

Should  Love,  the  tyrant ....  68 

Oft  have  I  sung 68 

Saved  from  the  perils 68 

Beside  the  streams  of  Baby- 
lon   Cft 

There  blooms  a  plant 68 

Amidst  the  bitter  tears 69 

He  who  proclaims 69 

Waves  of  Mondego ! 69 

Where  shall  I  find  some  de- 
sert   69 

Exempt  from  every  grief...  69 
No  searching  eye  can  pierce.  69 
Jfetastatio.            In  tears,  the  heart  oppressed 
Filicaja.                 Italia!  thou  by  lavish  Na- 
ture graced 60 

Pastorini.              If  thus  thy  fallen  grandeur.  60 

Lope  de  Vega,,       Let  the  vain  courtier 60 

Manuel.  Pause    not  with    lingering 

foot 60 

Delia  Oata.           These  marble  domes, 60 

Bentivoglio.           The  sainted  spirit 60 

Jfetastaeio.            He  shall  not  dread 60 

The  torrent  wave 61 

Sweet  rose!  whose  tender.  61 

Fortune!  why  thus 61 

Wouldst  thou  to  love 61 

Unbending  'midst  the  win- 
try   61 

Oh!  those  alone,  whose 61 

Ah  !  cease— those  fruitless..  61 

Amidst  these  scenes 61 

Thou,   who  has  fled  from 

life's 62 

Thoa,   in   thy  morn,  wert 

like 62 

This  green  recess 62 

Thou  that  wouldst  mark  ...  62 

If  to  the  sighing  breeze 62 

Thou,  the  stern  monarch...  62 

Sylph  of  the  breeze ! 62 

Hail  I  morning  sun 63 

Listen,  fair  maid 63 

Thou  grot,  whence  flows. ...  63 


Quevedo. 
J\Mn  de  Tarsi*. 

Torquato  Tasgo. 

Bernardo  Tasso. 

Petrarch. 

Petrarch. 

Bembo. 

Loremtni. 

Oessner. 

(German  Song.) 

C'ltaulieu. 


Garcilaso  de  la    Enjoy  the  sweets  of  I'/e's 
Veya.  luxuriant  May 63 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Lines  written  In  a  Hermitage    on  the  Sea 

Shore 63 

Dirge  of  a  Child 64 

Invocation 64 

To  the  Memory  of  General  Sir  Edward  Pack- 

enham 64 

To  the  Memory  of  Sir  Henry  E-ll-s,  who  fell 

in  the  Battle  of  Waterloo 64 

Guerilla  Song 65 

The  Aged  Indian 65 

Evenings  among  the  Alps 66 

Dirge  of  the  Highland  Chief  in  Waverley 65 

The  Crusader's  War  Song Ml 

The  Death  ofClanronald 66 

To  the  Eye 06 

The  Hero's  Death 67 

Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  the  Princess  Char- 
lotte      67 

The  Sceptic 69 

Stanzas  to  the  Memory  of  the  Late  King 72 

Modern  Greece 74 

Dartmoor 84 

The  Meeting  of  Wallace  and  Bruce  on  the 

Banks  of  the  Carron 87 

The  Last  Constantino 8t 

The  Siege  of  Valencia '. 101 

The  Vespers  of  Palermo 123 

The  League  of  the  Alps 147 

Arabella  Stuart 166 

The  Bride  of  the  Greek  Isle. 157 

The  Switzer's  Wife 169 

Properzia  Rossi 160 

Gertrude,  or  Fidelity  till  Death 161 

Imelda 161 

Edith,  a  Tale  of  the  Woods 162 

The  Indian  City 164 

The  Peasant  Girl  of  the  Rhone 166 

Indian  Woman's  Death  Song 166 

Joan  of  Arc,  in  Rheims 167 

Pauline 167 

Jnana 168 

The  American  Forest  Girl 169 

Costanza 171 

Madeline,  a  Domestic  Tale 171 

The  Queen  of  Prussia's  Tomb 171 

The  Memorial  Pillar 1F2 

The  Grave  of  a  Poetess 173 

A  Spirit's  Return 177 

The  Lady  of  Provence 17> 

The  Coronation  of  Inez  de  Castro 180 

Italian  Girl's  Hymn  to  the  Virgin 161 

To  a  departed  Spirit Ifl 

The  Chamois  Hunter's  Love Ifel 

Song  of  Emigration 182 

The  Indian  with  his  Dead  Child  182 

The  King  of  Arragon's  lament  for  his  Brother  183 

The  Return 183 

The  Vaudois  Wife 183 

The  Guerilla  Leader's  Vow 184 

Theklaather  Lover's  Grave 184 

The  Sitsters  of  Scio ISo 

Bernardo  del  Carpio 1M 

The  Tomb  of  Madame  Langhaus ISO 


(13) 


14 


CONTEXTS. 


FADE 

The  Exile's  Dirge 186 

The  Dreaming  Child 187 

The  Charmed  Picture 187 

Parting  Words 187 

The  Message  to  the  Dead 188 

The  Two  Homes 188 

The  Soldier's  Death-Bed 188 

The  Image  in  the  Heart 189 

Woman  on  the  Field  of  Battle 189 

The  Land  of  Dreams 190 

The  Deserted  House 190 

The  Stranger's  Heart 190 

Come  Home  191 

The  Fountain  of  Oblivion 191 

The  Themes  of  Song 191 

Rhine  Song  of  the  German  Soldiers 192 

A  Song  of  Delos  192] 

Ancient  Greek  Chaunt  of  Victory 19.S 

Naples,  a  Song  of  the  Siren 193 

The  Death-Song  of  Alcestis 1P3 

The  Fall  of  d'Assas 194 

The  Burial  of  William  the  Conqueror 194 

Chorus  from  the  Alcesti  of  Alfieri 195 

Near  thee,  still  nearthee 195 

The  Sisters,  a  Ballad 195 

Oh!  droop  thou  not 196 

Mignon's  Song,  translated  from  Goethe 197 

The  Last  Soug  of  Sappho. 197 

Dirge 197 

A  Song  of  the  Rose 197 

Night  Blowing  Flowers 198 

The  Wanderer  and  Night  Flowers 198 

Echo  Soug 198 

The  Muffled  Drum 199 

The  Swan  aod  the  Sky  Lark 199 

Ancient  Battle  Song 200 

The  Zegri  Maid 200 

The  Rio  Verde  Song 200 

Seek  by  the  Silvery  Darro 200 

Spanish  Evening  Hymn 200 

Bird  that  art  singing  on  Ebro's  Side 200 

Moorish  gathering  Song 201 

Song  of  Mina's  Soldiers 201 

Mother,  oh  !   sing  me-to  rest.... 201 

There  are  sounds  in  the  Dark  Roncesvalles. ...  201 

The  Cm-lew  Song  of  England 201 

The  Call  to  Battle 201 

And  I  too  in  Arcadia 202 

The  Wandering  Wind 202 

Ye  are  not  missed,  Fair  Flowers 202 

Willow  Song 203 

Leave  me  not  yet 203 

The  Orange  Bough 203 

the  Stream  set  free 203 

The  Summer's  Call 203 

Genius  singing  to  Love 204 

Oh!  Sky-Lark,  for  thy  wing 204 

Music  at  a  Death-bed 205 

Where  is  the  Sea  ?  Song  of  the  Greek  Islander 

in  exile 205 

Marshal  Schwerin's  Grave 205 

Introduction  205 

The  Brother  s  Dirge 206 

The  Alpine  Horn 206 

Oh!  ye  Voices 206 

I  Dream  of  all  things  free 206 

Far  over  the  Sea 206 

The  Invocation... 206 

The  Song  of  Hope 207 

The  Bird  at  Sea 207 

The  Ivy  Song 207 

The  Dying  Girl  and  Flowers 207 

The  Music  of  St.  Patrick's 20S 

Keene,  or  Lament  of  an  Irish  Mother  over  her 

Son 208 

England's  Dead 208 

Far  away 209 

The  Lyre  aod  Flower 209 

Sister,  since  I  met  thee  last 209 

The  Lonely  Bird 209 

Dirge  at  Sea 210 


Pilgrim's  Song  to  the  Evening  I  -«r 210 

The  Spartan  s  March 210 

The  Meeting  of  the  Ships 210 

The  Rock  of  Cader  Idris,  a  Legend  of  Wales..  211 

A  Farewell  to  Wales 211 

The  Dying  Bard's  Prophecy 211 

Come  away 211 

Music  from  Shore 212 

Fair  Helen  of  Klrconnel 212 

Look  on  me  with  thy  cloudless  eyes 212 

I  go,  sweet  friends 212 

If  thou  hast  crushed  a  flower 212  » 

Brightly  hast  thou  fled 213 

Sing  to  me,  Gondolier 213 

O'er  the  far  blue  mountains 213 

0  thon  breeze  of  Spring 2H 

Come  to  me,  dreams  of  Heaven 213 

Good  Night 214 

Let  her  depart 21 

1  would  we  had  not  met  again 214 

Water  Lilies,  a  Fairy  Song. 214 

The  broken  Flower 214 

Fairies'  Recall 214 

By  a  mountain  stream  at  rest 215 

The  Rock  beside  the  Sea  215 

0  ye  voices  gone 215 

Is  there  some  Spirit  sighing? 215 

The  Name  of  England 215 

Come  to  me,  gentle  sleep 215 

Old  Norway 216 

English  Soldier's  Song  of  Memory 216 

The  Home  of  Love 216 

Books  and  Flowers 217 

For  a  picture  of  St.  Cecilia  attended  by  An- 
gels   217 

The  Voice  of  the  Waves 217 

The  Haunted  House 218 

O'Connor's  Child 218 

The  Brigand  Leader  and  his  Wife 213 

The  Child's  return  from  the  Woodlands 219 

The  faith  of  Love 219 

The  Sister's  Dream 220 

Written  after  visiting  a  Tomb  near  Wood- 
stock    220 

Prologue  to  Fiesco 221 

A  Farewell  to  Abbotsford 221 

Scene  in  a  Dalecarlian  Mine 221 

The  Victor 222 

The  Storm  of  Delphi 222 

The  Bowl  of  Liberty 223 

The  Voice  of  Scio 223 

The  Urn  and  Sword 223 

The  Myrtle  bough 223 

Jhe  Cid's  Departure  into  Exile 224 

The  Cid's  Death-Bed 224 

The  Cid's  Funeral  Procession 224 

The  Cid's  Rising 225 

The  Heart  of  Bruce  in  Melrose  Abbey 226 

Nature's  Farewell 226 

The  Lyre's  Lament 226 

The  Wounded  Eagle 227 

The  Nightingale's  Death-Song 227 

The  Diver 227 

Triumphant  Music 228 

The  Sound  of  the  Sea 228 

The  Funeral  Genius 228 

Troubadour  Song * 229 

Owen  Glendwyer's  War-Song 229 

The  Penitent's  Offering 229 

The  Wish 230 

The  Welcome  to  Death 230 

The  Voice  of  Music 230 

Swiss  Home-Sickness 231 

Monumental  Inscription 231 

A  Thought  of  the  Rose 231 

Stanzas.  231 

To  the  Sea 2S1 

The  Voice  of  Spring ; 232 

The  Child  and  Dove 232 

The  Vaudois  Valleys 232 

Christ's  Agony  in  the  Garden 233 


CONTENTS. 


OB  a  Leaf  from  the  Tomb  of  Virgil 233 

The  Angels'  Call 233 

The  Voice  of  God 234 

The  Spell. 234 

Tne  Shepherd  Poet  of  the  Alps 234 

The  Release  of  Tasso 235 

The  Prayer  for  Life 237 

The  Battle  Field 237 

Things  that  Change 237 

A  Thought  of  the  Future 238 

A  Farewell  Song 238 

The  Bell  at  Sea 238 

A  Thought  of  Home  at  Sea 238 

The  Cottage  Girl 238 

Death  of  au  Infant 239 

Man  and  Woman 239 

The  Ruined  House 239 

Song 240 

The  Recall 240 

The  Summons 240 

To  the  Memory  of  a  Friend  and  Relative.......  241 

Evening  Song  of  the  Tyrolese  Peasants -.  241 

Fragment 241 

The  Fountain  of  Marah 241 

Haunted  Ground 242 

The  Ivy  of  Kenilworth 242 

The  Childe's  Destiny 242 

The  Subterranean  Stream 243 

Woman  and  Fame 243 

The  Sleeper  of  Marathon 243 

We  Return  no  More 244 

The  Chieftain's  Song 244 

The  Tombs  of  Platwa 244 

Love  and  Death 245 

Lights  and  Shades 245 

The  Meeting  of  the  Brothers 245 

The  View  from  Castri 246 

The  Festal  Hour 246 

Song  of  the  Battle  of  Morgarten 247 

Chorus,  translated  from  Mauzoui's  "  Coute  di 

Carmagnola" 248 

The  Meeting  of  the  Bards 249 

O,  ye  Hours 230 

The  Song  of  the  Gifted 250 

Marguerite  of  France 251 

The  Fallen  Lime-Tree 251 

The  Freed  Bird 252 

The  Flower  of  the  Desert 252 

"fhe  Huguenot's  Farewell 253 

The  Wanderer 253 

The  Silent  Multitude 253 

Washington's  Statue 253 

The  Broken  Lute 254 

Sabbath  Sonnet 254 

The  Cross  of  the  South 255 

Poetry  of  the  Psalms 265 

Moorish  Bridal  Song 256 

The  Sword  of  the  Tomb 256 

The  Bird's  Release 257 

Valkyriur  Song 258 

Swiss  Song  on  the  Anniversary  of  an  Ancient 

Battle '. 258 

The  Cavern  of  the  Three  Tells 259 

The  Messenger  Bird 259 

The  Stranger  in  Louisiana 260 

The  Bended  Bow 260 

The  Isle  of  Founts,  an  Indian  Tradition 200 

He  never  smiled  again 261 

Coeur-de-Lion  at  the  Bier  of  his  Father 261  j 

The  Vassal's  Lament  for  the  Fallen  Tree 262  . 

The  Wild  Huntsman 263  I 

Brandenburgh  Harvest  Song 263  ! 

The  Shade  of  Theseus 263  ; 

Ancient  Greek  Song  of  Exile 263 

Greek  Funeral  Chant  or  Myriologne 264 

The  Parting  Song 265 

The  Sulioto  Mother 266 

The  Farewell  to  the  Dead 266 

The  Bridal  Day 267 

The  Ancestral  Song 267 

The  Magic  Glass 268  i 


Connne  at  the  Capitol 268 

The  Ruin 269 

Tho  Minster .".'  '"  269 

The  Song  of  Night "..""  270 

The  Storm  Painter  in  his  Dungeon '.  270 

Death  and  the  Warrior 270 

The  Two  Voices 271 

The  Parting  Ship .'  271 

The  Last  Tree  of  the  Forest 272 

The  Streams 272 

The  Voice  of  the  Wind !...'.."""!.'  273 

The  Vigil  of  Arms '. "  273 

The  Beings  of  the  Mind 274 

Tasso's  Coronation 274 

The  Better  Land 274 

TheKequiem  of  Genius 275 

Sadness  and  Mirth 275 

Second  Sight 27P 

The  Sea-Bird  Flying  Island 276 

The  Sleeper 276 

The  Mirror  in  the  Deserted  Hall 276 

The  Forest  Sanctuary 277 

The  English  Martyrs 292 

Flowers  and  Music  in  a  Room  of  Sickness 294 

Cathedral  Hymn 296 

Wood  Walk  and  Hymn 296 

Prayer  of  the  Lonely  Student 298 

The  Traveler's  Evening  Song 298 

Burial  of  an  Emigrant's  Child  in  the  Forest...  299 

Easter-Day  in  a  Mountain  Church-Yard 300 

The  Child  Reading  the  Bible SOI 

A  Poet's  Dying  Hymn 302 

The  Funeral  Day  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  ............  302 

The  Prayer  in  the  Wilderness 303 

Prisoners'  Evening  Service 304 

Hymn  of  the  Vaudois  Mountaineers  in  times 

of  Persecution 305 

The  Indian's  Revenge 305 

Prayer  at  Sea  after  Victory 307 

The  Day  of  Flowers 307 

Evening  Song  of  the  Weary 308 

Hymn  of  the  Traveler's  Household  on  his  Re- 
turn   809 

A  Prayer  of  Affection 309 

The  Painter's  Last  Work 309 

Mother's  Litany  by  the  Sick-bed  of  a  Child....  310 

Night  Hymn  at  Sea 310 

Female  Characters  of  Scripture.     A  series  of 

Sonnets 310 

The  Two  Monuments ""  312 

The  Memory  of  the  Dead 313 

Augel  Visits 313 

A  Penitent's  Return 314 

A  Thought  of  Paradise 314 

Let  us  Depart 314 

On  a  Picture  of  Christ  bearing  the  Cross 315 

Communings  with  Thought 315 

Sonnets,  Devotional  and  Memorial 316 

Lines  to  a  Butterfly  resting  on  a  Skull 318 

The  Palmer 313 

The  Water-Lily 313 

Thought  from  an  Italian  Poet 318 

Elysium 319 

Belshazzar's  Feast 319 

HYMNS  FOB  CHILDHOOD. 

Introductory  Verses 323 

The  Rainbow 323 

The  Sun ^. 323 

The  Rivers 324 

The  Stars 324 

The  Ocean 324 

The  Thunder-Storm 324 

The  Birds 325 

The  Sky-Lark 325 

The  Nightingale 325 

The  Northern  Spring 326 

Paraphrase  of  Psalm  CXLVIII 826 

Christmas  Carol 326 

Christ  Walking  on  the  Water 826 

A  Father  reading  the  Bible 834 


16 


CONTENTS. 


MM 

A  Mrge _ 327 

Th«  Child's  First  Grief 327 

Epitaph  over  the  Grave  of  two  Brothers,  a 

Child  and  a  Youth S27 

Birth-day  Lines  to  a  young  Child  in  Autumn.  327 

On  a  similar  occasion 327 

Hymn  by  the  Sick-bed  of  a  Mother 327 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

The  Treasures  of  the  Deep 328 

The  Crusader's  Return 328 

Bring  Flowers .. 329 

Thekla's  Song  ;  or  the  Voice  of  a  Spirit 829 

The  Revellers 329 

The  Conqueror's  Sleep 330 

Our  Lady's  Well. 330 

The  Parting  of  Summer 330 

The  Songs  of  our  Fathers 331 

The  World  in  the  open  Air 331 

Kindred  Hearts 332 

The  Traveller  at  the  Source  of  the  Nile 332 

Casabianca 332 

The  Dial  of  Flowers 333 

Oqr  Daily  Paths 333 

The  Cross  in  the  Wilderness 333 

Last  Rites 334 

The  Hebrew  Mother  - 334 

The  Wreck.  335 

The  Trumpet 33S 

Evening  Prayer  at  a  Girl's  School, 336 

The  Hour  of  Death 336 

The  Cliffs  of  Dover 336 

The  Lost  Pleiad 337 

The  Graves  of  Martyrs 337 

The  Voice  of  Home  to  the  Prodigal 337 

The  Hour  of  Prayer. „ 337 

The  Wakening ^ 338 

The  Breeze  from  Shore „ 838 

The  Dying  Improvisator* 338 

Music  of  Yesterday ..^....^ 339 

The  Forsaken  Hearth....». „ 830 

The  Dreamer.., „..;....  899 

The  Wings  of  the  Dove. —  840 


Psyche  borno  Ij  Zephyrs  to  the  Island  of 

Pleasure 840 

The  Boon  of  Memory 341 

The  Homes  of  England 841 

The  Sicilian  Captive 341 

Ivan  the  Oar. S4J 

Carolan's  Prophecy 848 

The  Lady  of  the  Castle 34» 

The  Mourner  for  the  Barmecides 344 

The  Captive  Knight 343 

The  Spanish  Chapel 345 

Tha  Kaiser's  Feast 846 

Tassoandhis  Sister 347 

!  Ulla,  or  the  Adjuration 347 

To  Wordsworth 348 

A  Monarch's  Death-Bed 848 

To  the  Memory  of  Heber 348 

The  Adopted  ChUd 349 

Invocation 349 

Korner  and  his  Sister 349 

The  Death-Day  of  Korner 330 

An  Hour  of  Romance 350 

A  Voyager's  Dream  of  Land. S61 

The  Effigies 351 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  in  New 

England 332 

The  Spirit's  Mysteries 352 

The  Departed 352 

The  Palm-Tree, 353 

The  Child's  Last  Sleep 355 

The  Sunbeam 353 

Breathings  of  Spring 354 

The  Illuminated  City 354 

The  Spells  of  Home 364 

Roman  Girl's  Song., .~....  356 

The  Distant  Ship 355 

The  Birds  of  Passage 355 

The  Graves  of  a  Household 354 

Mozart's  Requiem 354 

The  Image  in  Lava 354 

The  Last  Wish „ 887 

Pairy  Favors „ 367 

A  Parting  ftonff  ,.,,.,,,,,,„,,,,, ,,,„., 


THE 


RESTORATION 


WORKS   OF  ART   TO   ITALY, 


A   POEM. 


'But  the  Joy  of  discovery  was  short,  and  the  triumph  ,/f  ta*le  tranfitory.  The  Fremh,  wbo  IB 
every  invasion  have  been  the  scourge  of  Italy,  and  |J<JVH  i-.\  ...••>!  or  rather  surpass-ed  ti.« 
rapacity  of  the  Goths  and  Vandals,  la.il  their  sacrilegious  haud:>  uu  the  unparalleled  collection 
of  the  Vatican,  tore  its  masterpieces  from  their  pedestals,  and  dragging  them  1'iuiii  their  temples 
of  marble,  transported  them  to  Paris,  and  consigned  them  to  the  dull  bulleu  hail.-,  or  ruiher 
•tables,  of  the  Louvre." — Eustace's  Classical  Tour  through  Italy,  vol.  ii.,  p.  60. 


Ttalid,  Italia)  O  to  cut  feo  la  Sorts 
Doiio  infelice  di  kellezza,  uncle  hal 
Fiu  *ta  lote  d'  iunuiti  guui, 
Che  'u  fronte  fccritti  per  gran  doglia  porte ; 

J>  JJ,  fueei  tu  men  beila,  o  aliueu  piu  forte. 


THE 

RESTORATION   OF   THE   WORKS   OF  ART 
TO  ITALY. 


F.AHD  of  departed  fame !  whose  classic  plain* 
Have  proudly  echoed  to  immortal  strains ; 
Whose  hallow'd  soil  hath  given   the  great  and 

brave. 

Day-stars  of  lite,  a  birth-place  and  a  grave; 
Home  of  the  Arts  !  where  glory's  faded  smile 
Sheds  lingering  light  o'er  many  a  mouldering  pile ; 
Proud  wreck  of  vanish'd  power,  of  splendour  fled. 
Majestic  temple  of  the  mighty  dead  ! 
Whose  grandeur,  yet  contending  with  decay, 
Gleams  through  the  twilight  of  thy  glorious  day  ; 
Though  diimn'd  thy  brightness,  riveted  thy  chain 
Yet,  fallen  Italy!  rejoice  again! 
Lost,  lovely  realm!  once  more  't  is  thine  to  gaze 
On  the  rich  relics  of  sublimer  days. 

Awake,  ye  Muses  of  Etrurian  shades, 
Or  sacred  Tivoli's  romantic  glades; 
Wake,  ye  that  slumber  in  the  bowery  gloom, 
Where  the  wild  ivy  shadows  Virgil's  tomb; 
Or  ye,  whose  voice,  by  Sorga's  lonely  wave, 
Swell'd  the  deep  echoes  of  the  fountain's  cave. 
Or  thrill'd  the  soul  in  Tasso's  numbers  high, 
Those  magic  strains  of  love  arid  chivalry; 
If  yet  by  classic  streams  ye  fondly  rove. 
Haunting  the  myrtle-vale,  the  laurel  grove; 
On    rouse  once  more  the  daring  soul  of  song, 
?cize  with  bold  hand  the  harp,  forgot  so  long, 
And  hail,  with  wonted  pride,  those  works  revered 
Hallow'd  by  time,  by  absence  more  endear'd. 

And  breathe  to  those  the  strain,  whose  warrior- 
might. 

Each  danger  stemm'd,  prevail'd  in  every  fight, 
Souls  of  unyielding  power,  to  storms  inured, 
Sublimed  by  peril,  and  by  toil  matured. 
Sing  of  that  leader,  whose  ascendant  mind 
Could  rouse  the  slumbering  spirit  of  mankind  ; 
Wlio!»e  banners  track'd  the  vanquish'd  Eagle's  flight 
O'er  many  a  plain,  and  dark  sierra's  height; 
Who  bade  once  more  the  wild,  heroic  lay 
Record  the  deeds  of  Roncesvalles'  day; 
Who,  through  each  mountain-pass  of  rock  and 

snow, 

An  Alpine  huntsman,  chased  the  fear-struck  foe; 
Waved  his  proud  standard  to  the  balmy  gales, 
Rich  Languedoc!  that  fan  thy  glowing  vales, 
And  'mid  those  scenes  renew'd  th'  achievement* 

high, 
Bequeath'd  to  fame  by  England's  ancestry. 

Yet,  when  the  storm  seem'd  hush'd,  the  conflict 

past. 

One  strife  remain'd — the  mightiest  and  the  last! 
Nervod  for  the  struggle,  in  that  fateful  hour. 
Untamed  Ambition  summon'd  all  his  power; 
Vengeance  and  Pride,  to  frenzy  roused,  were  there, 
And  the  stern  might  of  resolute  Despair. 


Isle  of  the  free!  'twas  then  thy  champions  stood 
Breasting  unmoved  the  combat's  wildest  flood. 
Sunbeam  of  Battle,  then  thy  spirit  shone, 
Ulow'd  in  each  breast,  and  sunk  with  life  alone. 

Oh  hearts  devoted  !  whose  illustrious  doom. 
Gave  there  at  once  your  triumph  and  your  tomb, 
Ye,  firm  and  faithful,  in  th1  ordeal  tried 
Of  that  dread  strife,  by  Freedom  sanctified; 
Shrined,  not  entomb'd,  ye  rest  in  sacred  earth, 
Hallow'd  by  deeds  of  more  than  mortal  worth. 
What  though  to  mark  where  sleeps  heroic  dust, 
No  sculptured  trophy  rise,  or  breathing  bust, 
Yours,  on  the  scene  where  valour's  race  was  run 
A  prouder  sepulchre — the  field  ye  won ' 
There  every  mead,  each  cabin's  lowly  name, 
Shall  live  a  watch-word  blended  with  your  fame  ; 
Aid  well  may  flowers  suffice  those  graves  to  crown, 
That  ask  no  urn  to  blazon  their  renown. 
There  shall  the  bard  in  future  ages  tread. 
And  bless  each  wreath  that  blossoms  o'er  the  dead; 
Revere  each  tree  whose  sheltering  branches  wave 
O'er  the  low  mounds,  the  altars  of  the  brave; 
Pause  o'er  each  warrior's  grass-grown  bed,  and 

hear. 

In  every  breeze,  some  name  to  glory  dear, 
And  as  the  shades  of  twilight  close  around, 
With  martial  pageants  people  all  the  ground. 
Thither  unborn  descendants  of  the  slain 
Shall  throng,  as  pilgrims  to  some  holy  fane, 
While  as  they  trace  each  spot,  whose  records  tell 
Where  fought  their  fathers,  and  prevail'd1,  and  fell 
Warm  in  their  souls,  shrill  loftiest  feelings  glow, 
Claiming  proud  kindred  with  the  dust  below! 
And  many  an  age  shall  see  the  brave  repair. 
To  learn  the  hero's  bright  devotion  there. 

And  well,  Ausonia  !  may  that  field  of  fame, 
From  thee  one  song  of  echoing  triumph  claim. 
Land  of  the  lyre !  'twas  there  the  avenging  sword 
Won  the  bright  treasures  to  thy  fanes  restored ; 
Those  precious  trophies  o'er  thy  realms  that  throw 
A  veil  of  radiance,  hiding  half  thy  woe, 
And  bid  the  stranger  for  a  while  forget 
How  deep  thy  fall,  and  deem  thee  glorious  yet. 

Yes !  fair  creations,  to  perfection  wrought, 
Embodied  visions  of  ascending  thought  I 
Forms  of  sublimity  !  by  Genius  traced. 
In  tints  that  vindicate  adoring  taste  ; 
Whose  bright  originals,  to  earth  unknown, 
Live  in  the  spheres  encircling  Glory's  throne; 
Models  of  art,  to  deathless  fame  consign'd, 
Stamp'd  with  the  high-born  majesty  of  mind; 
Yes,  inatr hlrss  works!  your  presence  shall  restort 
One  beam  of  splendour  to  your  native  shore, 
And  her  sad  scenes  of  lost  renown  illume, 
As  the  bright  sunset  gilds  some  hero's  tomb 
(19) 


HEMANS'  POETICAL,  WORKS. 


Oh!  ne'er,  in  other  climes,  though  many  an  eye 
Dwelt  on  your  charms  in  beaming  ecstasy; 
Ne'er  was  it  yours  to  bid  the  soul  expand 
With  thoughts  so  mighty,  dreams  so  boldly  grand, 
As  in  that  realm,  where  each  faint  breeze's  moan 
Seems  a  low  dirge  for  glorious  ages  gone  ; 
Where  'mid  the  ruin'd  shrines  of  many  a  vale, 
E'en  Desolation  tells  a  haughty  tale. 
And  scarce  a  fountain  flows,  a  rock  ascends. 
But  its  proud  name  with  song  eternal  blends! 

Yes!  in  those  scenes,  where  every  ancient  stream 
Bids  memory  kindle  o'er  some  lofty  theme  ; 
Where  every  m<»ole  deeds  of  fame  records, 
Each  ruin  tells  of  Earth's  departed  lords  ; 
And  the  deep  tones  of  inspiration  swell, 
From  each  wild  olive-wood  and  Alpine  dell ; 
Where  heroes  slumber,  on  their  battle  plains, 
'Mill  prostrate  altars,  and  deserted  fanes, 
And  Fancy  communes  in  each  lonely  spot. 
With  shp.dfis  }_'  :hose  who  ne'er  shall  be  forgot; 
There  was  your  home,  and  there  your  power  im 

prest, 

With  tenfold  awe,  the  pilgrim's  glowing  breast ; 
A  >id  as  the  wind's  deep  thrills,  and  mystic  sighs, 
Wake  the  wild  harp  to  loftiest  harmonies, 
Thus  at  your  influence,  starting  from  repose. 
Thought,  Feeling,  Fancy,  into  grandeur  rose. 

Fair  Florence!  Gtueen  of  Arno's  lovely  valel 
Justice  and  Truth  indignant  heard  thy  tale. 
And  sternly  smiled  in  retribution's  hour. 
To  wrest  thy  treasures  from  the  Spoiler's  power. 
Too  long  the  spirits  of  thy  noble  dead 
Mourn 'd  o'er  the  domes  t'hey  rear'd  in  ages  fled, 
Those  classic  scenes  their  pride  so  richly  graced. 
Temples  of  genius,  palaces  of  taste. 
Too  long,  with  sad  and  desolated  mien, 
Reveal'd  where  conquest's  lawless  track  had  been; 
Reft  of  each  form  with  brighter  life  imbued, 
Lonely  they  frown'd,  a  desert  solitude.  •' 

Florence !  th'  Oppressor's  noon  of  pridfi  is  o'er. 
Rise  in  thy  pomp  again,  and  weep  no  more  I 
As  one,  who,  starting  at  the  dawn  of  day 
From  dark  illusions,  phantoms  of  dismay. 
With  transport  heighten'd  by  those  ills  of  night, 
Hails  the  rich  glories  of  expanding  light; 
E'en  thus  awakening  from  thy  dreams  of  woe. 
While  Heaven's  own  hues  in  radiance  round  thee 

glow, 

With  warmer  ecstasy  'tis  thine  to  trace 
Each  tint  of  beauty,  and  each  line  of  grace ; 
More  bright,  more  prized,  more  precious  since  de- 
plored 

As  loved,  lost  relics,  ne'er  to  be  restored. 
Thy  grief  as  hopeless  as  the  tear-drop  shed 
By" fond  affection  bending  o'er  the  dead. 

Athens  of  Italy !  once  more  are  thinn 
Those  matchless  gems  of  Art's  exhausllessmine. 
For  thee  bright  Genius  darts  his  living  beam, 
Warm  o'er  thy  shrines  the  tints  of  Glory  stream 
And  forms  august  as  natives  of  the  sky. 
Rise  round  each  fane  in  faultless  majesty, 
So  chastely  perfect,  so  serenely  grand. 
They  seem  creations  of  no  mortal  hand. 

Ye,  at  whose  voice  fair  Art,  with  eagle  glance. 
Burst  in  full  splendour  from  her  death-like  trance; 
Whose  rallyingcall  bade  slumbering  nations  \vake, 
And  daring  Intellect  his  bondage  break; 
Beneath  whose  eye  the  Lords  of  song  arose. 
And  snatch'd  the  Tuscan  lyre  from  long  repo«e; 
And  bade  its  pealing  energies  resound, 
With  power  electric,  through  the  realms  around 
Oh  !  high  in  thought,  magnificent  in  soul  I 
Born  to  inspire,  enlighten,  and  control ; 
Cosmo,  Lorenzo!  view  your  reign  once  more. 
The  shrine  where  nations  mingle  to  adore  I 
Again  th'  Enthusiast  there,  with  ardent  gaze, 
Shall  hail  the  mighty  of  departed  tl«ys  : 
Those  sovereign  spirits,  whose  commanding  mind 
Seems  in  the  marble's  breathing  mould  enshrined 
Still,  with  ascendant  power,  the  world  to  awe, 
Still  the  deep  homage  of  the  heart  to  draw  ; 


To  breathe  some  spell  of  holiness  around, 
Bid  all  the  scene  be  consecrated  ground, 
And  from  the  stone,  by  inspiration  wrought, 
Dart  the  pure  lightnings  of  exalted  thought. 

There  thou,  fair  offspring  of  immortal  Mindl 
Love's  radiant  Goddess,  Idol  of  Mankind  ! 
Once  the  bright  object  of  Devotion's  vow, 
Shalt  claim  from  taste  a  kindred  worship  now. 
Oh  !  who  can  tell  what  beams  of  heavenly  light 
Flash'd  o'er  th«  sculptor's  intellectual  sight, 
How  many  a  glimpse  reveal'd  to  him  alone, 
Made  brighter  brings,  nobler  worlds  his  own: 
Ere,  like  some  vision  sent  the  earth  to  bless, 
Burst  into  life  thy  pomp  of  loveliness ! 

Young  Genius  there,  while  dwells  his  kindli  jg 

eye 

On  forms,  instinct  with  bright  divinity, 
While  new-born  powers,  dilating  in  his  heart, 
Embrace  the  full  magnificence  of  Art ; 
From  scenes  by  Raphael's  gifted  hand  array'd; 
From  dreams  of  heaven,  by  Augelo  portray'd  ; 
From  each  fair  work  of  Grecian  skill  sublime, 
Seal'd  with  perfection,  "sanctified  by  time;" 
Shall  catch  a  kindred  glow,  and  proudly  feel 
His  spirit  burn  with  emulative  zcnl, 
Buoyant  with  loftier  hopes  his  soul  shall  rise, 
Imbued,  at  once,  with  nobler  energies; 
O'er  life's  dim  scenes  on  rapid  pinion  soar, 
And  worlds  of  visionary  grace  explore. 
Till  his  bold  hand  give  glory's  day-dreams  birth, 
And  with  new  wonders  charm  admiring  earth. 

Venice,  exult,  and  o'er  thy  moonlight  seas. 
Swell  with  gay  strains  each  Adriatic  breeze  ! 
What  though  long  fled  those  years  of  martial  fanH 
That  shed  romantic  lustre  o'er  thy  name. 
Though  to  the  winds  thy  streamers  idly  play, 
And  the  wild  waves  another  Queen  obey  ; 
Though  quench'd  the  spirit  of  thin<2  ancient  race, 
And  power  and  freedom  scarce  have  left  a  trace  • 
Yet  still  shall  Art  her  splendours  round  thee  cart 
And  gild  the  wreck  of  years  for  ever  past. 
Acain  thy  fanes  may  boast  a  Titian's  dyes, 
Whose  clear,  soft  brilliance  emulates  thy  skies, 
And  scenes  that  glow  in  colouring's  richest  bloom, 
With  life's  warm  flush  Palladian  halls  illume. 
From  thy  rich  dome  again  the  unrivall'd  steed 
Starts  to  existence,  rushes  into  speed. 
Still  for  Lysippus  claims  the  wreath  of  fame, 
Panting  with  ardour,  vivified  with  flame. 

Proud  Racers  of  the  Sun  !  to  fancy's  thought, 
Burning  with  spirit'  from  his  essence  caught, 
No  mortal  birth  ye  seem — but  fnrm'd  to  bear 
Heaven's  car  of  triumph   through  the  realms  o{ 

air; 

To  range  uncurh'd  the  pathless  fields  of  space, 
The  winds  your  rivals  in  the  glorious  race; 
Traverse  empyreal  spheres  with  buoyant  feet, 
Free  as  the  zephyr,  as  the  shot  star  fleet  ; 
And  waft  through  worlds  unknown  the  vital  ray, 
The  flame  that  wakes  creations  into  day. 
Creatures  of  fire  and  ether!  wing'd  with  light. 
To  track  the  regions  of  the  Infinite  ! 
From  purer  elements  whose  life  was  drawn. 
Sprung  from  the  sunbeam,  offspring  of  the  dawn 
What  years  on  years,  in  silence  gliding  by. 
Have  spared  those  forms  of  perfect  symmetry  1 
Moulded  by  Art  to  dinnify  alone 
Her  own  bright  deity's  resplendent  throne. 
Since  first  her  skill  their  fiery  crace  bestow'd, 
Meet  for  such  lofty  fate,  such  high  abode. 
How  many  a  race,  whose  tales  of  glory  seem 
An  echo's  voice — the  music  of  a  dream, 
Whose  records  feebly  from  oblivion  save 
A  few  bright  traces  of  the  wise  and  brave ; 
How  many  a  state,  whose  pillar'd  strength  sublime 
Defied  the  storms  of  war,  the  waves  of  time, 
Towering  o'er  earth  majestic  and  alone. 
Fortress  of  power — has  flourish'd  and  is  gone  I 
And  they,  from  clime  to  clime  by  conquest 
Each  fleeting  triumph  destined  to  adorn. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


n 


They,  that  of  powers  and  kingdoms  lost  and  won, 
Have  seen  the  noontide  and  the  setting  sun, 
Consummate  still  in  every  grace  remain, 
As  o'er  their  heads  had  ages  roll'd  in  vain! 
Ages,  victorious,  in  their  ceaseless  flight. 
O'er  countless  monuments  of  earthly  might! 
While  she,  from  fair  Byzantium's  lost  domain. 
Who  bore  those  treasures  to  her  ocean-reign. 
'Midst  the  blue  deep,  who  rear'd  her  island  throne. 
And  call'd  th'  infinitude  of  waves  her  own ; 
Venice  the  proud,  the  regent  of  the  sea, 
Welcomes  in  chains  the  trophies  of  the  free! 

And  thou,  whose  Eagle's  towering  plume  un 

furl'd, 

Once  cast  its  shadow  o'er  a  vassal  world, 
Kternal  city !  round  whose  Curule  throne 
'•  ic  lords  of  nations  knelt  in  ages  flown  ; 
Thou,  whose  Augustan  years  have  left  to  time, 
Immortal  records  of  their  glorious  prime  ; 
When  deathless  bards,  thine  olive-shades  among. 
Bwell'd  the  high  raptures  of  heroic  song; 
Fair,  fallen  empress!  raise  thy  languid  head 
From  the  cold  altars  of  th'  illustrious  dead, 
And  once  again,  with  fond  delight,  survey 
The  proud  memorials  of  thy  noblest  day. 

Lo!  where  thy  sons,  oh  Rome  !  a  god-like  train. 
In  imaged  majesty  return  again  ! 
Barils,  chieftains,   monarchs,   tower   with   mien 

august, 

O'er  scenes  that  shrine  their  venerable  dusf. 
Those  forms,  those  features,  luminous  with  soul, 
Still  o'er  thy  children  seem  to  claim  control; 
Will)  awful  grace  arrest  the  pilgrim's  glance. 
Bind  his  rapt  soul  in  elevating  trance, 
And  bid  the  past,  to  fancy's  ardent  eyes, 
From  time's  dim  sepulchre  in  glory  rise. 

Souls  of  the  lofty!  whose  undying  names, 
Rouse  the  young  bosom  still  to  noblest  aims ; 
Oh  !  with  your  images  could  fate  restore 
Your  own  high  spirit  to  your  sons  once  more : 
Patriots  antl  heroes  !  could  those  flames  return, 
That  bade  your  hearts  with  freedom's  ardour  burn 
Then  from  the  sacred  ashes  of  the  first. 
Might  a  new  Rome  in  phoenix-grandeur  burst ! 
With  one  bright  glance  dispel  the  horizon's  gloom, 
With  one  loud  call  wake  Empire  from  the  tomb  ; 
Bind  round  her  brows  her  own  triumphal  crown, 
Lift  her  dread  yEgis  with  majestic  frown. 
Unchain  her  Eagle's  wing,  and  guide  his  flight, 
To  bathe  its  plumage  in  the  fount  of  light. 

Vain  dream!  degraded  Rome  !  thy  noon  is  o'er, 
Once  lost,  tliy  spirit  shall  revive  no  more. 
It  sleeps  with  those,  the  sons  of  other  days. 
Who  fix'd  on  tliee  the  world's  adoring  gaze; 
Those,  blest  to  live,  while  yet  thy  star  was  high, 
More  blest,  ere  darkness  quench'd  its  beam,  to  die! 

Yet,  though  thy  faithless  tutelary  powers 
Have  fled  thy  shrines,  left  desolate  thy  towers, 
Still,  still  to  thee  shall  nations  bend  their  way, 
Revered  in  ruin,  sovereign  in  decay! 
Oh !  what  can  realms,  in  fame's  full  zeiuth.  boast, 
To  match  the  relics  of  thy  splendour  lost ! 
By  Tiber's  waves,  on  each  illustrious  hill, 
Genius  and  Taste  shall  love  to  wander  still, 
For  there  has  Art  survived  an  empire's  doom, 
And  rear'd  her  throne  o'er  Latium's  tiophied  tomb; 
She  from  the  dust  recalls  the  brave  and  free, 
Peopling  each  scene  with  beings  worthy  thee! 

Oh!  ne'er  again  may  War,  with  lightning-stroke, 
Rend  its  last  honours  from  the  Bhatter'd  oak! 
Long  be  those  works,  revered  by  ages,  thine. 
To  lend  one  triumph  to  thy  dim  decline. 

Itright  with  Btern  beauty,  breathing  wrathful 

fire 

In  all  the  grandeur  of  celestial  ire. 
Once  more  thine  own,  th'  immortal  Archer's  form, 
Sheds  radiance  round,  with  more  than  Being  warm, 
Oh  !  who  could  view,  nor  deem  that  perfect  frame, 
A  living  temple  of  ethereal  flame  ? 


Lord  of  the  day-star  !  how  may  words  portray 

Of  thy  chaste  glory  one  reflected  ray  ? 

Whate'er  the  soul  could  dream,  the  hand  could 

trace, 

Of  regal  dignity,  and  heavenly  grace; 
ERC!)  purer  effluence  of  the  fair  and  bright, 
Whose  fitful  gleams  have  broke  on  mortal  sight; 
Each  bold  idea,  borrow'd  from  the  sky, 
To  vest  th'  embodied  form  of  deity ; 
All,  all  in  the  ennobled  and  refined, 
Breathe  and  enchant,  trauscendently  combined  1 
Son  of  Elysium  !  years  and  ages  gone 
Have  how'd  in  speechless  homage,  at  thy  throne; 
And  days  unborn,  and  nations  yet  to  be, 
Shall  gaze,  absorb  d  in  ecstasy,  on  thee  1 

And  thou  triumphant  wreck,  (1)  e'en  yet  sublime 
Disputed  trophy,  claim'd  by  Art  and  Time, 
Hail  to  that  scene  again,  where  Genius  caught 
From  thee  its  fervours  of  diviner  thought ! 
Where  He,  th'  inspired  one,  whose  gigantic  mind 
Liived  in  some  sphere,  to  him  alone  assign'd  ; 
Who  from  the  past,  the  future,  and  th'  unseen. 
Could  call  up  forms  of  more  than  earthly  mien  ; 
Unrivall'd  Angelo  on  thee  would  gaze, 
Till  his  full  soul  imbibed  perfection's  blaze' 
And  who  but  he,  that  Prince  of  Art,  might  dar; 
Thy  sovereign  greatness  view  without  despair? 
Emblem  of  Rome !  from  power's  meridian  hurl'd. 
Yet  claiming  still  the  homage  of  the  world. 

What  hadst  thou  been,  ere  barbarous  hand  de- 
faced 

The  work  of  wonder,  idolized  by  taste? 
Oh !  worthy  still  of  some  divine  abode, 
Mould  of  a  conqueror !  (2)  ruin  of  a  god! 
Still,  like   some   broken   gem,  whose  quenchless 

beam 

From  each  bright  fragment  pours  its  vital  stream 
'Tis  thine,  by  fate  unconquer'il,  to  dispense 
From  every  part,  some  ray  of  excellence! 
E'en  yet,  inform'd  with  essence  from  on  high. 
Thine  is  no  trace  of  frail  mortality' 
Within  that  frame  a  purer  being  glows, 
Through  viewless  veins  a  brighter  current  flows; 
Filld  with  immortal  life,  each  muscle  swells, 
In  every  line  supernal  grandeur  dwells. 

Consummate  work  !  the  noblest  and  the  last. 
Of  Grecian  Freedom,  (:J)  ere  her  reign  was  past. 
Nurse  of  the  mighty,  .'he,  while  lingering  still 
Her  mantle  flow'd  o'er  many  a  classic  hill. 
Ere  yet  her  voice  its  parting  accents  breathed, 
A  Hero's  image  to  the  world  bequeathed  : 
Enshrined  in  thee  th'  imperishable  ray 
Of  high-soul'd  Genius,  foster'd  by  her  sway. 
And  bade  thee  teach,  to  ages  yet  unborn, 
What  lofty  dreams  were  hers— who  never  shall 
return  I 

And  mark  yon  group,  transfix'd  with  many  • 

throe 

Seal'd  with  the  >mage  of  eternal  woe: 
With  fearful  t.uth,  terrific  power,  exprest. 
Thy  pangs,  Laocoon,  agonize  the  breast. 
And  the  stern  combat  picture  to  mankind. 
Of  suffering  nature,  and  enduring  mind. 
Oh,  mighty  conflict!  though  his  pains  intense 
Distend  each  nerve,  and  dart  through  every  sense 
Though  fix'd  on  him,  his  children's  suppliant  eyes 
Implore  the  aid  avenging  fate  denies; 
Though,  with  the  giant-snake  in  fruitless  strife 
Heaves  every  muscle  with  convulsive  life, 
And  in  each  limb  Existence  writhes,  enroll 'd 
•Mid  the  dread  circles  of  the  venon'd  fold; 
Yet  the  strong  spirit  lives— and  not  a  cry 
Shall  own  th«  might  of  Nature's  agony  ! 
That  furrow'd  brow  unconquer'd  soul  reveals. 
That  patient  eye  to  angry  Heaven  appeal*. 
That  struggling  bosom  concentrates  its  breath 
Nor  yields  one  moan  to  torture  or  toWeath !  (4) 

Sublimest  triumph  of  intrepid  Art! 
With  speechless  horror  to  congeal  the  heart. 
To  freeze  each  pulse,  and  dart  through  every  veil 
Cold  t ln-iiis  of  fear,  keen  sympathies  of  pain  , 


KKMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Vet  teach  the  spirit  how  its  lofty  power 
May  brave  the  pangs  of  fate's  severest  hour. 

Turn  from  such  conflicts,  and  enraptured  gaze 
On  scenes  where  Painting  all  her  skill  displays: 
Landscapes,  by  colouring  drest  in  richer  dyes, 
Morp  mellow'd  sunshine,  more  unclouded  skies; 
Or  dreams  of  bliss,  to  dying  Martyrs  given, 
Descending  Seraphs  robed  in  beams  of  heaven. 

Oil!  sovereign  Masters  of  the  Pencil's  might, 
ts  depth  nf  shadow,  and  its  blaze  of  light, 
Ye,  whose  bold  thought,  disdaining  every  bound, 
Explored  the  worlds  above,  below,  around, 
Children  of  Italy  1  who  stand  alone. 
And  unapproach'd,  'midst  regions  all  your  own  ; 
What  scenes,  what  beings  blest  your  favour 'd  sight 
Severely  grand,  unutterably  bright  1 
Triumphant  spirits !  your  exulting  eye 
Could  meet  the  noontide  of  eternity, 
And  gazeuntired,  undaunted,  uncontroll'd, 
On  all  that  Fancy  trembles  to  behold. 

Bright  on  your  view  such  forms  their  splendoui 

shed, 

As  burst  on  Prophet-bards  in  ages  fled: 
Forms  that  to  trace,  no  hand  but  yours  might  dare, 
Darkly  sublime,  or  exquisitely  fair. 
These  o'er  the  walls  your  magic  skill  array'd. 
Glow  in  rich  sunshine,  gleam   through  melting 

shade, 

Float  in  light  grace,  in  awful  greatness  tower. 
And  breathe  arid  move,  the  records  of  your  power. 
Inspired  of  Heaven!  what  heighten'd  pomp  ye  cast. 
O'er  all  the  deathless  trophies  of  the  past! 
Round  many  a  marble  fane  and  classic  dome, 
Asserting  still  the  majesty  of  Rome; 
Round  many  a  work  that  bids  the  world  believe 
What  Grecian  Art  could  image  and  achieve; 
Again,  creative  minds,  your  visions  throw 
Life's  chasten 'd  warmth,  and  Beauty's  mellowmt 

glow. 
And  when  the  morn's  bright  beams  and  mantling 

dyes 

Pour  the  rich  lustre  of  Ausonian  skies, 
Or  evening  suns  illume,  with  purple  smile, 
The  Parian  altar,  and  the  pillar'd  aisle, 
Then,  as  the  full,  or  soften'd  radiance  falls, 
On  Angel-groups  that  hover  o'er  the  walls, 
Well  may  those  Temples,  where  your  hand  has 

shed 

Light  o'er  the  tomb,  existence  round  the  dead, 
Seem  like  some  world,  so  perfect  and  so  fair, 
That  naught  of  earth  should  find  admittance  there, 
Some  sphere,  where  Beings,  to  mankind  unknown. 
Dwell  in  the  brightness  of  their  pomp,  alone! 

Hence,  ye  vain  fictions,  fancy's  erring  theme, 
Gods  of  illusion!  phantoms  of  a  dream  I 
Frail,  powerless  idols  of  departed  time. 
Fables  of  song,  delusive,  though  sublime! 
To  loftier  tasks  has  Roman  Art  assign'd 
Her  matchless  pencil,  and  her  mighty  mind! 
From  brighter  streams  her  vast  iileas  flow'd, 
With  purer  fire  her  ardent  spirit  glow'd. 
To  her  'twas  given  in  fancy  to  explore 
The  land  of  miracles,  the  holiest  shore  ; 
Th.it  realm  where  first  the  light  of  life  was  sent, 
The  loved,  the  punish'd,  of  tli'  Omnipotent! 
O'er  Judah's  hills  her  thoughts  inspired  would  stray. 
Through  Jordan's  valleys  trace  their  lonely  way; 
By  Siloa's  brook,  or  Almotana's(5)  deep, 
Chain'd  in  dead  silence,  and  unbroken  sleep; 
Scenes  whose  cleft  rocks,  and  blasted  deserts,  tell 
Where  pass'd  th'  Eternal,  where  his  anger  fell  I 
Where  oft  his  voice  the  words  of  fate  reveal'd, 
Swell'd  in  the  whirlwind,  in  the  thunder  peal'd. 
Or  heard  by  prophets  in  some  palmy  vale, 
Breath'd '  still  small'  whispers  on  the  midnight  gale. 
There  dwelt  her  spirit— there  her  hand  portray'd,  •  | 

*  ) 


'Mid  the  lone  wilderness  or  cedar-shade. 
Ethereal  forms,  with  awful  missions  fraught, 
Or  Patriarch-seers,  absorb'd  in  sacred  thought. 
Bards,  in  high  converse  with  the  world  of  re*t, 
Saints  of  the  earth,  and  spirits  of  the  blest. 
But  chief  to  Him,  the  Conqueror  of  the  grave, 
Who  lived  to  guide  us,  and  who  died  to  save; 
Him,  at  whose  glance  the  powers  of  evil  fled, 
And  soul  return'd  to  animate  the  dead  ; 
Whom  the  waves  own'd— and  sunk  beneath  his  eye, 
Awed  by  one  accent  of  Divinity  ; 
To  Him  she  gave  her  meditative  hours, 
Hallow'd  her  thoughts,  and  sanctified  her  power*, 
O'er  her  bright  scenes  sublime  repose  she  threw, 
As  all  around  the  Godhead's  presence  knew, 
And  robed  the  Holy  One's  benignant  mien 
In  beaming  mercy,  majesty  serene. 

Oh!  mark,  where  Raphael's  pure  and  perfect  line 
Portrays  that  form  ineffably  divine  !  (G) 
Where  with  transcendent  skill  his  hand  has  shed 
Diffusive  sunbeams  round  the  Saviour's  head; 
Each  heaven-illumined  lineament  imbued 
With  all  the  fullness  of  beatitude, 
And  traced  the  sainted  group,  whose  mortal  sight 
Sinks  overpower'd  by  th*  excess  of  light  I 

Gaze  on  that  scene,  and  own  the  might  of  Art, 
Bv  truth  inspired  to  elevate  the  heart ! 
To  bid  the  soul  exultingly  possess, 
Of  all  her  powers,  a  heighten'd  consciousness, 
And  strong  in  hope,  anticipats  the  day, 
The  last  of  life,  the  first  of  freedom's  ray; 
To  realize,  in  some  unclouded  sphere, 
Those  pictuted  glories  feebly  imaged  here! 
Dim,  cold  reflections  from  her  native  sky, 
Taint  effluence  of  "the  Day-spring  from  on  highP 

NOTES. 


NOTB   1. 

The  Belvidere  Torso,  the  favourite  study  of  Michael  Angelo,  an4 
of  many  other  distinguished  artists. 

NOTE  2. 

"  Quotque  cette  statue  d'Hercule  ait  etc  roaltraitee  et  inutile*  d'unt 
maniere  et  range,  se  trouvaut  sans  tele,  sans  bras,  et  uns  jambes,  elle 

ceux  qui  savent  percer  dans  tes  mysteres  de  1'art,  se  la  represeitent 
dans  toute  sa  beaute.  L'artiste,  en  voulant  representer  Hereule,  a 
forme  un  corps  ideal  au-dessus  de  la  nature.  *  *  •  Get  Hereule 
paroit  done  ici  tel  qu'il  dut  etre,  lorsque,  purifie  par  le  feu  des  foi- 
blesses  de  ITiumanite,  il  obtint  I'immortaHte,  et  prit  place  aupres  de» 
dieux.  II  est  represente  sans  aucnn  besoin  de  ncmrriture  et  de  repa- 
ration de  forces.  Les  veines  y  sont  toutes  invisibles."— WmcfceJ. 
matin.  Biitoire  tie  Uirt  cAez  la  J)nacni,  torn.  ii.  p.  248. 

NOTE  3. 

"  Le  Torso  d'Hercule  paroit  un  des  dermers  ouyrages  parfaits  que 
Part  ait  pnduit  <-n  Grece,  avant  la  perle  de  sa  liberte.  Car  apra 
que  la  Grece  fut  reduite  en  province  Homaine,  Phisloire  ne  fait  men- 
tion d'aucuu  artiste  celebre  de  cette  nation,  jusqu'aui  temps  du  Tri- 
umvirat  Romam."1— •  WmdUlmann,  ibid.  torn.  ii.  p.  250. 

NOTS  4. 

"  It  ii  not,  in  the  same  manner,  in  the  agonized  limbs,  or  in  the 
convulsed  muscle*  of  the  Laocoon,  that  the  secret  grace  of  its  compo- 
sition resides,  it  is  in  the  majestic  air  of  the  head,  which  has  iiot 
yielded  to  suffering,  and  in  the  deep  serenity  of  the  forehead,  which 
seems  to  be  still  su/imo!  to  all  its  afflictions,  and  significant  of  » 
mind  that  cannot  be  subdued  "— v»Hi»on'»  Essayt,  vol.  n.  p.  408. 

"Laocoon  nous  ofTre  le  spectacle  de  la  nature  hvmaine  dans  U 
plus  grande  douleur  dont  elle  soil  susceptible,  sous  Pimage  dtiomma 
(,ui  tache  de  rassembler  contre  elle  toute  ta  force  de  1'esprit.  Tandi? 
lie  I  Vices  de  la  souffrance  enfle  les  muscles,  et  tire  violemment  lei. 
nerfj,  le  courage  se  montre  sur  le  front  gonfle :  la  poitrine  s'eleve 
ivec  peine  par  la  necessile  de  la  respiration,  qui  est  egalemeut  con 
irainte  par  le  silence  que  la  force  de  I'ame  impose  a  la  douleur  qu'ell* 
vudroit  etouHer.  »  *  *  Son>  '"  "st  plaintif,  et  non  eriard." — Winck 
Kiruinn,  ibid.  torn.  ii.  p 

W:TE  5. 

Almotana.    The  nan»      /en  by  the  Arabs  to  the  Dead  Sea, 

NOTE  6. 

The  TransfiguratiotL  <"'jht  to  be  so  perfect  a  specimen  of  art, 
Tu»t.  in  honour  of  RapT  el,  it  wa»  carried  before  his  body  to  in* 


HISTORIC     SCENES. 


Le  Manre  ae  Be  venge  pas  parce  qae  sa  colere  dure  encore,  mais  parce  que  la  vengeance  geule  pent 
ecarter  de  sa  tele  Je  poids  d'iula&iid  dout  il  est  accable. — 11  se  veuge,  parce  qu'a  sea  yeux  il  u'y 
a  qu'une  ame  basse  qui  puisse  pard^uuer  le.-.  affronts  ;  et  il  uourrit  sa  raucune,  parce  qua  s'il  la 
teutoit  b'tteiuJie,  il  croiroit  avec  elle.  Avoir  pel  Jii  uue  verm. — Siauiondi. 


The  eveuts  with  which  llie  folluwiug  tale  is  iuterwoveu,  are  related  iu  the  "Historia  de  Ua 
Guerras  Civiles  Ue  Grauada."  They  occurred  iu  the  reign  of  Abo  Abdeli  or  Abdali,  the  lost  Mourinh 
kiug  of  that  city,  called  by  the  Spaniards  El  Key  Ulticu.  The  couquest  of  (jrauada,  by  Ferdiuaud 
and  Isabella,  is  said,  by  some  historians,  to  have  been  greatly  facilitated  by  the  Abeucerrages,  wliuse 
defection  was  the  result  of  the  repeated  injuries  they  had  received  from  the  kiug  at  tuc  iu^igatiou 
of  the  Zegris.  Oi>*  of  the  uiost  beautiful  hails  of  the  Alhambra  is  pointed  out  as  the  scene  where 
KO  inauy  of  the  former  celebrated  tribe  were  massacred  ;  and  it  still  retains  their  nauie,  being  called 
the  "Sala  tie  Ion  Abeucerrages. "  Many  of  the  utoat  interesting  old  Spanish  ballads  relate  to  lb« 
event*  of  tliis  chit aii-oua  and  roiuautic  period. 


THE   ABENCEPvRAGE. 


CANTO  I. 

LONELY  and  still  are  now  thy  mnrble  hall«. 
Them  fair  Alhambra  !  there  the  feast  is  o'er, 

And  with  the  murmur  of  thy  fountain-falls, 
Blend  the  wild  notes  of  minstrelsy  no  more. 

Hjsh'd  are  the  voices,  that,  in  years  gone  by. 
Have  mourn'd  exulted,  menaced,  through  thy 
towers; 

(Vithin  thy  pillar'd  courts  the  grass  waves  high, 
Arid  all  uncultured  bloom  thy  fairy  bowters. 

Unheeded  there  the  flowering  myrtle  blows. 
Through  tall  arcades  unmark'd   the   sunbeam 
smiles. 

And  many  a  tint  of  softcn'd  brilliance  throws. 
O'er  fretted  walls,  and  shining  peristyles. 

And  well  might  Fancy  deem  thy  fabrics  lone, 
So  vast,  so  silent,  and  so  wililly  fair. 

Some  ch&rm'd  abode  of  beings  nil  unknown, 
Powerful  and  viewless,  children  of  the  air. 

For  there  no  footstep  treads  the  enchanted  ground, 
There  not  a  sound  the  deep  repose  pervades, 

rJtvc  windo  and  founts  diffusing  freshness  round. 
Through  the  light  domes  a  nd  graceful  colon  nadea. 

For  oiher  tones  have  swell'd  those  courts  along, 
Ii.  days  romance  yet  fondly  loves  to  trace ; 

Dis  ciash  of  arms,  the  voice  of  choral  song, 
Tfce  levels,  combats,  of  a  vanish'd  race. 

And  yet  avhi:»,  at  Fancy's  potent  call, 
Sha  I  rje  .*iai  race,  the  chivalrous,  tho  boldl 

Peopling  o.  ce  -no.-e  each  fair,  forsaken  hall, 
With  stately  i^rms,  the  knights  and  chiefs  of  ol 

—The  sun  decent*— upon  Nevada's  height 
There  dwells  »  mJlo.v  flesh  of  rosy  light ; 
Each  soaring  pina.Me  of  mountain  snow 
Smiles  in  the  richness  of  ;hat  nailing  glow, 
And  Darro's  wave  reflects  t,ach  passing  dye 
That  melts  and  mingtss  in  th'  empurpled  sky. 
Fragrance,  exhaled  from  ro»a  a.'d  c.tron  bower, 
Blends  with  the  dewy  freshness  o.'  the  hour: 
Hush'd  are  the  winds,  and  X'atu-e  soemj  to  deep 
In  light  and  stillness;  wood,  and  u  we.,  and  steep, 
Are  dyed  with  tints  of  glory,  onlv  &'ve.i 
To  the  rich  evening  of  a  southern  he&  -en  ; 
Tints  of  the  sun,  whose  bright  farewell  i.«  fr&'.tgh.. 
With  all  that  art  hath  dreamt,  but  never  o/'igh« 
— Yes,  Nature  sleeps ;  but  not  with  her  a;  re*t 
The  fiery  passions  of  the  human  breast. 
Hark !  from  the  Alhambra's  towers  what  storm) 

sound, 

Each  moment  deepening,  wildly  swells  around  * 
Those  are  no  tumults  of  a  festal  throng, 
Not  the  light  zambra,  (1)  nor  the  choral  song; 
The  combat  rages— 't  is  the  shout  of  war, 


Tis  the  loud  clash  of  shield  and  scymetar. 
Within  the  Hall  of  Lions,  (2)  where  the  rays 
Of  eve,  yet  lingering,  on  the  fountain  blaze  ; 
There,  girt  and  guarded  by  his  Zegri  bands, 
And  stern  in  wrath,  the  Moorish  monarch  stands 
There  the  strife  centres — swords  around  him  wave 
There  bleed  the  fallen,  there  contend  the  brave, 
While  echoing  domes  return  the  battle-cry, 
"  Revenge  and  Freedom ! — let  the  tyrant  die ! " 
And  onward  rushing,  and  prevailing  still, 
Court,  hall,  and  tower  the  fierce  avengers  fill. 

But  first  and  bravest  of  that  gallant  train. 
Where  foes  are  mightiest,  charging  ne'er  in  vain 
In  his  red  hand  the  sabre  glancing  bright, 
His  dark  eye  flashing  with  a  fiercer  light. 
Ardent,  untired,  scarce  conscious  that  he  bleeds, 
His  Aben-Zurrahs  (3)  there  young  Hamet  leads: 
While  swells  his  voice  that  wild  acclaim  on  high, 
"Revenge  and  freedom  ! — let  the  tyrant  die!" 

Yes,  trace  the  footsteps  of  the  warrior's  wrath, 
By  helm  and  corslet  shatter'd  in  his  path  ; 
And  by  the  thickest  harvest  of  the  slain. 
And  by  the  marble's  deepest  crimson  stain  : 
Search  through  the  serried  fight,  where  loudest 

cries 

From  triumph,  anguish,  or  despair  arise; 
And  brightest  where  the  shivering  falchions  glare, 
And  where  the  ground  is  reddest — he  is  there. 
Yes,  that  young  arm,  amidst  the  Zegri  host. 
Hath  well  aveniysd  a  sire,  a  brother,  lost. 
They  perish'd— not  as  heroes  should  have  died, 
On  the  red  field  in  victory's  hour  of  pride. 
In  all  the  glow  and  sunshine  of  their  fame, 
And  proudly  smiling,  as  the  death-pang  came"; 
Oh  !  had  they  thus  expired,  a  warrior's  tear 
Had  flow'd  almost  in  triumph,  o'er  the;'  bier. 
For  thus  alone  the  brave  should  wee.T  for  tliv^e 
Who  brightly  pass  in  glory  to  repose. 
—Not  such  their  fate— a  tyrant's  ster.-  co«r«»i««i« 
Doom'd  them  to  fall  by  some  ignoble  h;i..<l. 
As,  with  the  flower  of  all  their  high-lx.-n  t  «e, 
Suininon'd  Abdallah's  royal  feast  to  grace, 
Fearless  in  heart,  no  dream  of  danger  high. 
They  sought  the  banquet's  gilded  hall — to  die. 
Betray'd,  unarm'd,  they  fell— the  fountain  wave 
Flow'd  crimson  with  the  life-blood  of  the  brave. 
Till  far  the  fearful  tidings  of  their  fate 
Through  the  wide  city  rung  from  gate  to  gate, 
And  of  that  lineage  each  surviving  son 
Rush'd  to  the  scene  whtre  vengea.ice  might  b» 
won. 

F<<r  thia  young  Ilrmet  mingles  in  the  strife. 
Lender  of  battle,  procujral  of  life, 
IIrgii:,«  his  followers,  till  their  foes,  beset, 
SUnd  uint  mnd  b/eath'.?$s,  b.-t  undaunted  yet. 
Brave  Ab<.*>-Zur"ab>,  on  I  ;>ne  e5ort  more. 
Yours  ic  the  triun.ph,  and  tht.  contil-t  o'e* 
(88) 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  lo!  descending  o'er  the  darken'd  hall, 
The  twilight  shadows  fast  and  deeply  fall, 
Nor  yet  the  strife  hath  ceased — tho'  scarce  the 

know. 

Through  that  thick  gloom,  the  brother  from  the  foi 
Till  the  moon  rises  with  her  cloudless  ray, 
The  peaceful  moon,  and  gives  them  light  to  slay. 

Where  lurks  Abdallah?  — 'midst  his  yielding 

train 

They  seek  the  guilty  monarch,  but  in  vain  : 
He  lies  not  nurnber'd  with  the  valiant  df  ad. 
His  champions  round  him  have  not  vainly  bled  ; 
But  when  the  twilight  spread  hor  shadowy  veil, 
And  his  last  warriors  found  each  effort  fail, 
In  wild  despair  he  fled— a  trusted  few, 
Kindred  in  crime,  are  still  in  danger  true; 
And  o'er  the  scene  of  many  a  martial  deed, 
The  Vega's  (4)  green  expanse,  his  flying  footsteps 

lead. 

He  pass'd  th'  Alhambra's  calm  and  lovely  bower* 
Where  slept  the  glistening  leaves  and  folded  flow- 
era 

In  dew  and  starlight— there  from  prot  and  cave, 
Gush'd  in  wild  music  many  a  sparkling  wave; 
There,  on  each  breeze,  the  breath  of  fragrance  rose, 
And  all  was  freshness,  beauty,  and  repose. 

But  thou,  dark  monarch!  in  thy  bosom  reign 
Storms  that,  once  roused,  shall  never  sleep  again, 
Oh!  vainly  bright  is  nature  in  the  course 
Of  him  who  flips  from  terror  or  remorse ! 
A  spell  is  round  him  which  obscures  her  bloom, 
And  dims  her  skies  with  shadows  of  the  tomb; 
There  sm'.les  no  Paradise  on  earth  so  fair, 
But  guilt  will  raise  avenging  phantoms  there. 
Ahilallah  heeds  not  though  the  light  gale  roves 
Fraught  with   rich  odour,   stolen   from   orange- 
groves, 
Hears  not  the  sounds  from  wood  and  brook  that 

rise, 

Wild  notes  of  nature's  vesper  melodies; 
Marks  not,  how  lovely,  on  the  mountain's  head, 
Moonlieht  and  snow  their  mingling  lustre  spread- 
But  urges  onward,  till  his  weary  band, 
Worn  with  their  toil,  a  moment's  pause  demand. 
He  stops,  and  turning  on  Granada's  fanes 
In  silence  gazing,  lix'd  awhile  remains; 
In  stern,  deep  silence — o'er  his  farerish  brow, 
And  burning  cheek,  pure  breezes  freshly  flow, 
But  waft,  in  fitf.il  murmurs  from  afar, 
Sounds,  indistinctly  fearful— as  of  war. 
What  meteor  bursts,  with  sudden  blaze,  on  high, 
O'er  tho  blue  clearness  of  the  starry  sky  7 
Awful  it  rises  like  some  Genie-form, 
Seen  'midst  the  redness  of  the  desert  storm,  (5) 
Magnificently  dread— above,  below, 
Spreads  the  wild  splendour  of  its  deepening  glow 
Lo!  from  the  Alhambra's  towers  the  vivid  glare 
Streams  through  the  still  transparence  of  the  air; 
Avenging  crowds  have  lit  the  mighty  pyre, 
Which  feeds  that  waving  pyramid  of  flre; 
And  dome  and  minaret,  river,  wood,  and  height. 
From  dim  perspective  start  to  ruddy  light. 

Oh  Heaven  1  the  anguish  of  Abdallah's  soul. 
The  rage,  though  fruitless,  yet  beyond  control  I 
Vet  must  he  cease  to  gaze,  and  raving  fly 
For  life — such  life  as  makes  it  bliss  to  die! 
On  yon  green  height,  the  mosque,  but  half  reveal'd 
Through  cypress-groves,  a  safe  retreat  may  yield. 
Thither  his  steps  are  bent—  yet  oft  he  turns, 
Watching  that  fearful  beacon  as  it  burns. 
But  paler  grow  the  sinking  flames  at  last. 
Flickering  they  fade,  their  crimson  light  is  past. 
And  spiry  vapours  rising  o'er  the  scene, 
Mark  where  the  terrors  of  their  wrath  have  been. 
And  now  his  feet  have  reach'd  that  lonely  pile, 
Where  grief  and  terror  may  repose  awhile; 
Embower'd  it  stands, 'midst  wood  and  clifTon  high, 
Throueh  the  gray  rocks  a  torrent  sparkling  nigh; 
He  hails  the  scene  where  every  care  should  cease. 
And  all — except  the  heart  he  brings— is  peace. 

There  is  deep  stillness  in  those  halls  of  state. 
Where  the  loud  cries  of  conflict  rung  so  late ! 
Stillness  like  that,  when  fierce  the  Kamsin's  b!as« 
Hatit  o'er  the  dwellings  of  the  desert  pass'd.  (6) 


Fearful  the  calm— nor  voice,  nor  step,  nor  breath 
Disturbs  that  scene  of  beauty  and  of  death: 
Those  vaulted  roofs  re-echo  not  a  sound. 
Save  the  wild  gush  of  waters— murmuring  round 
In  ceaseless  melodies  of  plaintive  tone, 
Through  chambers  peopled  by  the  dead  alone. 
O'er  the  mosaic  floors,  with  carnage  red, 
Breastplate  and  shield,  and  cloven  helm  are  spread 
In  mingled  fragments— glittering  to  the  light 
Of  yon  still  moon,  whose  rays,  yet  softly  bright, 
Their  streaming  lustre  tremulously  shed. 
And  smile,  in  placid  beauty,  o'er  the  dead ; 
O'er  features,  where  the  fiery  spirit's  trace, 
E'en  death  itself  is  powerless  to  efface, 
O'er  those  who,  flush'd  with  ardent  youth,  awoke 
When  glowing  morn  in  bloom  and  radiance  broke. 
Nor  dreamt  how  near  the  dark  and  frozen  sleep, 
Which  hears  not  Glory  call,  nor  Anguish  weep, 
In  the  low  silent  house,  the  narrow  spot, 
Home  of  forgetfulness,  and  soon  foigot. 

But  slowly  fade  the  stars— the  night  is  o'er— 
Morn  beams  on  those  who  hail  her  light  no  more 
Slumberers,  who  ne'er  shall  wake  on  earth  agaJa 
Mourners,  who  call'd  the  loved,  the  lost,  in  vai. 
Yet  smiles  the  day— Oh  !  not  for  mortal  tear 
Doth  nature  deviate  from  her  calm  career. 
Nor  is  the  earth  less  lauching  or  less  fair, 
Though   breaking  hearts  her  gladness  may    set 

share. 

O'er  the  cold  urn  the  beam  of  summer  glows, 
O  er  fields  of  blood  the  zephyr  freshly  blows ; 
Bright  shines  the  sun,  though  all  be 'dark  below, 
And  skies  arch  cloudless  o'er  a  world  of  woe, 
And  flowers  renew'd  in  spring's  green  pathwa) 

bloom, 
Alike  to  grace  the  banquet  and  the  tomb. 

Within  Granada's  walls  the  funeral  rite 
Attends  that  day  of  loveliness  and  light ; 
And  many  a  chief,  with  dirges  and  with  tears, 
Is  gather'd  to  the  brave  of  other  years; 
And  Hamet,  as  beneath  the  cypress  shade 
Mis  martyr'd  brother  and  his  sire  are  laid. 
Feels  every  deep  resolve,  and  burning  thought 
Of  ampler  vengeance,  e'en  to  passion  wrought; 
Yet  is  the  hour  afar— and  he  must  brood 
O'er  those  dark  dreams  awhile  in  solitude. 
Tumult  and  rage  are  hush'd— another  day 
In  still  solemnity  hath  pass'd  away. 
In  that  deep  slumber  of  exhausted  wrath, 
The  calm  that  follows  in  the  tempest's  path. 

And  now  Abdallah  leaves  yon  peaceful  fane, 
His  ravaged  city  traversing  again. 
No  sound  of  gladness  his  approach  precedes, 
No  splendid  pageant  the  procession  leads  ; 
Where'er  he  moves  the  silent  streets  along. 
Broods  a  stern  quiet  o'er  the  sullen  throng; 
No  voice  is  heard— but  in  each  alter'd  eye, 
Once  brightly  beaming  when  his  steps  were  nigh 
And  in  each  look  of  those  whose  love  hath  fl<xi 
From  all  on  earth,  to  slumber  with  the  dead. 
Those,  by  his  guilt  made  desolate,  and  thrown 
On  the  bleak  wilderness  of  life  alone, 
In  youth's  quick  glance  nf  scarce  dissembled  rage 
And  the  pale  mien  of  calmly-mournful  age. 
May  well  be  read  a  dark  and  fearful  tale 
Of  thought  that  ill  th'  indignant  heart  can  veil, 
And  passion,  like  the  hush'd  volcano's  power, 
That  waits  in  stillness  its  appointed  hour. 

No  mnre  the  clarion,  from  Granada's  walls 
Heard  o'er  the  Vega,  to  the  tourney  calls; 
Vo  more  her  graceful  daughters,  throned  on  high 
Bend  o'er  the  lists  the  darkly  raiii&nt  eye  ; 

Silence  and  gloom  her  palaces  o'erspread, 

And  song  is  hush'd,  and  pageantry  is  fled. 

— Weep,  fated  city !  o'er  thy  heroes  weep — 
jow  in  the  dust  the  sons  of  glory  steep; 
•"url'd  are  their  banners  in  the  lonely  hall, 
Their  trophied  shields  hang  mouldering  on  the  wall 
Vildly  their  chargers  range  the  pastures  o'er, 
Their  voice  in  battle  shall  be  heard  no  mnre ; 

And  they,  who  still  thy  tyrant's  wrath  survive, 
Vhom  he  hath  wrong'd  too  deeply  to  forgive, 
VOL.  I.— 7 


REMANS'  POETICAL  WOKKS. 


That  race,  of  lineage  hieh,  of  worth  approved, 
The  chivalrous,  the  princely,  the  beloved  ; 
Thine  Aben-Zurrahs— they  no  more  shall  wield 
In  thy  proud  cause,  the  conquering  lance  and  shield. 
Condemn'd  to  bid  the  cherish'd  scenes  farewell 
Where  the  loved  ashes  of  their  fathers  dwell, 
And  far  o'er  foreign  plains,  as  exiles,  roam. 
Their  land  the  desert,  and  the  grave  their  home. 
Yet  there  is  one  shall  see  that  race  depart, 
In  deep,  though  silent,  agony  of  heart ; 
One  whose  d«rk  fate  must  be  to  mourn  alone, 
Unseen  her  sorrows,  and  their  cause  unknown. 
And  veil  her  heart,  and  teach  her  cheek  to  wear 
That  smile,  in  which  the  spirit  hath  no  share; 
Like  the  bright  beams  that  shed  their  fruitlessglow 
O'er  the  cold  solitude  of  Alpine  snow. 

Soft,  fresh,  and  silent,  is  the  midnight  hour, 
And  the  young  Zayda  seeks  her  lonely  bower; 
That  Zegri  maid  within  whose  gentle  mind 
One  name  is  deeply,  secretly  enshrined. 
That  name  in  vain  stern  reason  would  efface, 
Hamet !  't  is  thine,  thou  foe  to  all  her  race  I 

And  yet  not  hers  in  bitterness  to  prove 
The  sleepless  pangs  of  unrequited  love  ; 
Pangs,  which  the  rose  of  wasted  youth  consume, 
And  make  the  heart  of  all  delight  the  tomb. 
Check  the  free  spirit  in  its  eagle-flight. 
And  the  spring-morn  of  early  genius  blight ; 
Not  such  her  grief— though  now  she  wakes  to  weep. 
While    tearless  eyes  enjoy  the    honey-dews  of 
sleep.  (7) 

A  step  treads  lightly  through  the  citron-shade, 
Lightly,  but  by  the  rustling  leaves  betray'd— 
Doth  her  young  hero  seek  that  well-known  spot, 
Scene  of  past  hours  that  ne'er  may  he  forgot  ? 
'Tishe — but  changed  that  eye,  whose  elance  of  fire 
Could,  like  a  sunbeam,  hope  and  joy  inspire, 
As,  luminous  with  youth,  with  ardour  fraught, 
It,  spoke  of  glory  to  the  inmost  thought ; 
Thence  the  bright  spirits  eloquence  hath  fled, 
And  in  its  wild  expression  may  be  read 
Stern  thoughts  and  fierce  resolves— now  veil'd  in 

shade, 

And  now  in  characters  of  fire  portray'd. 
Changed  e'en  his  voice— as  thus  its  mournful  tone 
Wakes  in  her  heart  each  feeling  of  his  own. 

"  Zayda,  my  doom  is  fix'd — another  day, 
And  the  wrong'd  exile  shall  be  far  away  ; 
Far  from  the  scenes  where  still  his  heart  must  be, 
His  home  of  youth,  and,  more  than  all— from  thee. 
Oh  !  what  a  cloud  hath  gather'd  o'er  my  lot, 
Since  last  we  met  on  this  fair  tranquil  spot ! 
Lovely  as  then,  the  soft  and  silent  hour, 
And  not  a  rose  hath  faded  from  thy  bower; 
Rut  I— my  hopes  the  tempest  hath  "o'erthrown. 
And  changed  my  heart,  to  all  but  thee  alone. 
Farewell,  high  thoughts!  inspiring  hopes  of  praise. 
Heroic  visions  of  my  early  days ! 
In  me  the  glories  of  my  race  must  end, 
The  exile  hath  no  country  to  defend  ! 
E'en  in  life's  morn,  my  dreams  of  pride  are  o'er, 
Youth's  buoyant  spirit  wakes  for  me  no  more, 
And  one  wild  feeling  in  my  alter'd  breast 
Broods  darkly  o'er  the  ruins  of  the  rest. 
Yet  fear  not  thou — to  thee,  in  good  or  ill, 
'•'•'e  heart,  so  sternly  tried,  is  faithful  still ! 
But  when  my  steps  are  distant,  and  my  name 
Thou  hear'st  no  longer  in  the  song  of  fame, 
When  Time  steals  on,  in  silence  to  efface 
Of  early  love  each  pure  and  sacred  trace. 
Causing  our  sorrows  and  our  hopes  to  seem 
Rut  as  the  moonlight  pictures  of  a  dream, 
Still  shall  thy  soul  be  with  me  in  the  truth. 
And  all  the  fervour  of  affection's  youth? 
— If  such  thy  love,  one  beam  of  heaven  shall  play 
In  lonely  beauty,  o'er  thy  wanderer's  way." 

"  Aik  not,  if  such  my  love  !  oh  !  trust  the  mind 
To  grief  so  long,  so  silently  resign'd  ! 
Let  the  light  spirit,  ne'er  by  sorrow  taught 
The  pure  and  lofty  constancy  of  thought, 
Its  fleeting  trials  eager  to  forget. 
Rise  with  elastic  power  o'er  each  regret  I 


Foster'd  in  tears,  our  young  affection  grew, 
And  I  have  learn'd  to  surfer  and  be  true. 
Deem  not  my  love  a  frail  ephemeral  flower, 
Nursed  by  soft  sunshine  and  the  balmy  shower; 
No!  'tis  the  child  of  tempests,  and  defies, 
And  meets  unchanged,  the  anger  of  the  skiefl  I 
Too  well  I  feel,  with  griefs  prophetic  heart, 
That  ne'er  to  meet  in  happier  days,  we  part. 
We  part!  and  e'en  this  agonizing  hour, 
When  Lovefirst  feels  hisowno'erwhelmingpowel 
Shall  soon  to  Memory's  fix'd  and  tearful  eye 
Seem  almost  happiness — for  thou  wert  nigh  I 
Yes!  when  this  heart  in  solitude  shall  bleed. 
As  days  to  days  all  wearily  succeed. 
When  doom'd  to  weep  in  loneliness,  't  will  be 
Almost  like  rapture  to  have  wc-pt  with  thee. 

"But  thou,  my  Hamet,  thou  canst  yet  bestow 
All  that  of  joy  my  blighted  lot  can  know. 
Oh !  be  thou  still  the  high-soul'd  and  the  brave, 
To  whom  my  first  and  fondest  vows  I  gave, 
In  thy  proud  fame's  untarnish'd  beauty,  still 
The  lofty  visions  of  my  youth  fulfil, 
So  shall  it  soothe  me  'midst  my  heart's  despait. 
To  hold  undimm'd  one  glorious  image  there!" 

"  Zayda,  my  best-beloved  !  my  words  too  well, 
Too  soon,  thy  bright  illusions  must  dispel ; 
Yet  must  my  soul  to  thee  un  veil'd  be  shown, 
And  all  its  dreams  and  all  its  passions  known. 
Thou  shall  not  be  deceived— for  pure  as  heaven 
Is  thy  young  love,  in  faith  and  fervour  given. 
I  said  my  heart  was  changed  —  and   would   thf 

thought 

Explore  the  ruin  by  thy  kindred  wrought, 
In  fancy  trace  the  land  whose  towers  and  fanes, 
Crush'd  by  the  earthquake,  strew  its  ravaged  plains, 
And  such  that  heart— where  desolation's  hand 
Hath  blighted  all  that  once  was  fair  or  grand ! 
But  Vengeance,  fix'd  upon  her  burning  throne, 
Sits  'midst  the  wreck  in  silence  and  alone. 
And  I,  in  stern  devotion  at  her  shrine, 
Each  softer  feeling,  but  my  love,  resign. 
— Yes!  they  whose  spirits  all  my  thoughts  control, 
Who  hold  dread  converse  with  my  thrilling  soul; 
They,  the  betray'd,  the  sacrificed,  the  brave. 
Who  fill  a  blood-stain'd  and  untimely  grave, 
Must  be  avenged!  and  pity  and  remorse, 
In  that  stern  cause,  are  banish'd  from  my  course 
Zayda,  thou  tremblest— and  thy  gentle  breast 
Shrinks  from  the  passions  that  destroy  my  rest ; 
Yet  shall  thy  form,  in  many  a  stormy  hour, 
Pass  brightly  o'er  my  soul  with  softening  power, 
And,  oft  recall'd.  thy  voice  beguile  my  lot, 
Like  some  sweet  lay.  once  heard,  and  ne'er  forgot 

"  But  the  night  wanes— the  hours  too  swiftly  fly. 
The  bitter  moment  of  farewell  draws  nigh : 
Yet,  loved  one!  weep  not  thus— in  joy  or  pain, 
Oh  !  trust  thy  Hamet,  we  shall  meet  again  ! 
Yes,  we  shall  meet!  and  haply  smile  at  last 
On  all  the  clouds  and  conflicts  of  the  past. 
On  that  fair  vision  teach  thy  thought?  to  dwell. 
Nor  deem  these  mingling  tears  our  last  farewell !" 

Is  the  voice  hush'd,  whose  loved,  expressive  tone 
Thrill'd  to  her  heart,  and,  doth  she  weep  alone  ? 
Alone  she  weeps— that  hour  of  parting  o'er— 
When  shall  the  pang  it  leaves  be  felt  no  more  ? 
The  gale  breathes  light,  and  fans  her  bosom  fair 
Showering  the  dewy  roge-leaves  o'er  her  hair; 
But  ne'er  for  her  shall  dwell  reviving  power, 
In  balmy  dew,  soft  breeze,  or  fragrant  flower. 
To  wake  once  more,  that  calm,  seicne  delight, 
The  soul's  young  bloom,  which  passion's  breatk 

could  hlisht ; 

The  smiling  stillness  of  life's  morning-lionr. 
Ere  yet  the  day-star  burns  in  all  his  power. 
Mean  while  through  groves  of  deep  luxuriant  shad* 
In  the  rich  foliage  of  the  south  array'd, 
Hamet,  ere  dawns  the  earliest  blush  of  day, 
Bends  to  the  vale  of  tombs  his  pensive  way. 
Fair  is  that  scene  where  palm  and  cypress  wave 
On  high  o'er  many  an  Aben-Zurrah's  grave. 
Lonely  and  fair— its  fresh  and  glittering  leavet, 
With  the  young  myrtle  there  the  laurel  weaves. 


28 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  canopy  the  dead — nor  wanting  there 
Flowers  to  the  turf,  nor  fragrance  to  the  air, 
Nor  wood-bird's  note,  nor  fall  of  plaintive  stream, 
Wild  music,  soothing  to  the  mourner's  dream. 
There  sleep  the  chiefs  of  old— their  combats  o'er. 
The  voici;  of  glory  thrills  their  hearts  no  more ! 
Unheard  by  them  th'  awakening  clarion  blows  ; 
The  sons  of  war  at  length  in  peace  repose. 
\o  martial  note  is  in  the  gale  that  sighs, 
Where  proud  their  trophied  sepulchres  arise, 
'Mid  founts,  and  shades,  and  flowers  of  brightest 

bloom, 
As.  in  his  native  vale,  some  shepherd's  tomb. 

Tiiere,  where   the  trees  their  thickest   foliage 

spread 

Dark  o'er  that  silent  valley  of  the  dead. 
Where  two  fair  pillars  rise,  embower')!  and  lone. 
Not  yet  with  ivy  clad,  with  moss  o'ergrown. 
Young  Unmet  kneels— while  thus  his  vows  are 

pour'd, 

The  fearful  vows  that  consecrate  his  sword. 
— "Spirit  of  him,  who  first  within  my  mind 
Each  loftier  aim,  each  nobler  thought  enshrined, 
And  taught  my  steps  the  line  of  light  to  trace, 
Left  by  the  glorious  fathers  of  my  race, 
Hear  thou  my  voice— for  thine  is  with  me  still, 
lit  every  dream  its  tones  my  bosom  thrill, 
In  the  deep  calm  of  midnight  they  are  near, 
'Midst  busy  throngs  they  vibrate  on  my  ear. 
Still  murmuring  "vengeance!" — nor  in  vain  the 

call, 

Few,  few  shall  triumph  in  a  hero's  fall ! 
Cold  as  thine  own  to  glory  and  to  fame, 
Within  my  heart  there  lives  one  only  aim  ; 
Thoe,  till  th'  oppressor  for  thy  fate  atone,  . 
Concentring  every  thought,  it  reigns  alone. 
I  will  not  weep — revenge,  not  grief,  must  be. 
And  blood,  not  tears,  an  offering  meet  for  thee; 
But  the  dark  hour  of  stern  delisht  will  come. 
And  thou  shall  triumph,  warrior !  in  thy  tomb. 

''  Thou,  too.  my  brother!  thou  art  pass')!  away, 
Witlm-it  thv  fame,  in  life's  fair  dawning  day: 
Son  of  the  brave !  of  thee  no  trace  will  shine 
In  '.he  proud  annals  of  thy  lofty  line. 
Nor  shall  thy  deeds  be  deathless  in  the  lays, 
That  hold  communion  with  the  after-days. 
Yet  by  the  wreaths  thou  might'sl  have  nobly  won 
Hadst  thou  but  lived  till  rose  thy  noontide  sun, 
By  glory  lost,  I  swear,  by  hope  betray'd, 
Thy  fate  shall  amply,  dearly,  be  repaid ; 
War  with  thy  foes  I  deem  a  holy  strife, 
And  to  avenge  thy  death,  devote  my  life. 

"  Hear  ye  my  vows,  oh  spirits  of  the  slain ! 
Hear  and  be  with  me  on  the  battle-plain  ' 
At  noon,  at  midnight,  still  around  me  bide. 
Rise  on  my  dreams,  and  tell  me  how  ye  died!" 


CANTO  II. 


• Oh  !  ben  provvirfe  il  Ciclo, 

Cb1  uotn  pur  delitti  mai  lido  Don  sia. 
JUfieri. 

F*IR  land  !  of  chivalry  the  old  domain. 
Land  of  the  vine  and  olive,  lovely  Spain  I 
Though  not  for  thee  with  classic  shores  to  Tie 
In  charms  that  fix'd  the  enthusiast's  pensive  eye, 
Yet  hast  thou  scenes  of  beauty  richly  fraught 
With  all  that  wakes  the  glow  of  lofty  thought; 
fountains  and  vales,   and  rocks,  whose  ancient 

name 

High  deeds  have  raised  to  mingle  with  their  fame, 
Those  scenes  are  peaceful  now :  the  citron  blows, 
Wild  spreads  the  myrtle,  where  the  brave  repose. 
No  sound  of  battle  swells  on  Douro's  shore 
And  banners  wave  on  Ebro's  banks  no  more. 
But  who,  unmoved,  unawed,  shall  coldly  tread 
Thy  fields  that  sepulchre  the  mighty  dead  » 


Blest,  be  that  soil !  where  England's  heroes  sh«r« 
The  grave  of  chiefs,  for  ages  slumbering  there; 
Whose  names  are  glorious  in  romantic  lays, 
The  wild  sweet  chronicles  of  elder  days. 
By  goatherd  lone,  and  rude  serrana  sung, 
Thy  cypress  dells,  and  vine-clad  rocks  among. 
How  oft  those  rocks  have  echo'd  to  the  tale 
Of  knights  who  fell  in  Roncesvalles'  vale; 
Of  him,  renown'd  in  old  heroir  lore, 
First  of  the  brave,  the  gallant  Campeador; 
Of  those  the  famed  in  song,  who  proudly  died, 
When  "  Rio  Verde"  roll'd  a  crimson  tide  : 
Or  that  high  name,  by  Garcilaso's  might. 
On  the  green  Vega  won  in  single  fight.  (8) 

Round  fair  Granada,  deepening  from  alar. 
O'er  that  green  Vega  rose  the  din  ot  war. 
At  morn  or  eve  no  more  the  sunbeam?  shone 
O'er  a  calm  scene  in  pastoral  beauty  lone; 
On  helm  and  corslet  tremulous  they  glanced. 
On  shield  and  spear  in  quivering  lustre  danced 
Far  as  the  sislit  by  clenrXenil  co'-W  rove. 
Tents  rose  around,  and  banners  glanced  above. 
And  steeds  in  gorgeous  trappings,  armour  bright 
With  gold  reflecting  every  tint  of  light. 
And  many  a  floating  plume,  and  blazon 'd  shield 
Diffused  romantic  splendour  o'er  the  field. 

There  swell  those  sounds  that  bid  the  life-blood 

start 

Swift  to  the  mantlinp  cheek,  and  beating  heart. 
The  clang  of  echoing  steel,  the  charger's  neigh. 
The  measured  tread  of  hosts  in  war's  array  ; 
And  oh!  that  music,  whose  exulting  breath 
Speaks  but  of  glory  on  the  road  to  death; 
In  whose  wild  voice  there  dwells  inspiring  power 
To  wake  the  stormy  joy  of  danger's  hour. 
To  nerve  the  arm,  the  spirit  to  sustain. 
Rouse  from  despondence,  and  support  in  pain. 
And,  'midst  the  deepening  tumults  of  the  strife, 
Teach  every  pulse  to  thrill  with  more  than  life. 

High  o'er  the  camp,  in  many  a  hroider'd  fold. 
Floats  to  the  wind  a  standard  rirh  with  gold: 
There  imaged  on  the  cross,  his  form  appears, 
Who  drank  for  man  the  bitter  cup  of  tears.  (9) 
His  form,  whose  word  recall'd  the  spirit,  fled. 
Now  borne  by  hosts  to  guide  them  o'er  tile  dead 
(•:r  yon  fair  walls  to  plant  the  cross  on  high, 
b'ain  hath  sent  forth  her  flower  of  chivalry. 
Fired  with  that  ardour,  which,  in  days  of  yore. 
To  Syrian  plains  the  bold  Crusaders  bore; 
Elate  with  lofty  hope,  with  martial  zeal, 
They  come,  the  gallant  children  of  Castile  ; 
The  proud,  the  calmly  dignified  : — and  there 
Ebro's  dark  sons  with  haughty  mien  repair, 
And  those  who  guide  the  fiery  steed  of  war 
From  yon  rich  province  of  the  western  star.  (10) 

But  thou,  conspicuous 'midst  the  glittering  scene. 
Stern  grandeur  stamp'd  upon  thy  princely  mien  ; 
Known  by  the  foreign  garb,  the  silvery  vest, 
The  snow-white  charger,  and  the  azure  crest,  (11) 
Young  Aben-Zurrah  !  'midst  that  host  of  foes. 
Why  shi  nes  thy  helm,  thy  Moorish  lance?  Disclose! 
Why  rise  the  tents  where  dwell  thy  kindred  train. 
Oh  son  of  Afric,  'midst  the  sons  of  Spain  1 
Hast  thou  with  these  thy  nation's  fall  conspired, 
Apostate  chief  by  hope  of  vengeance  tired? 
How  art  thou  changed  !    Still  first  in  every  fight. 
Hamet,  the  Moor!  Castile's  devoted  knight! 
There  dwells  a  fiery  lustre  in  thine  eye, 
But  not  the  light  that  shone  in  days  gone  by ; 
There  is  wild  ardour  in  thy  look  and  tone. 
But  not  the  soul's  expression  once  thine  own, 
Nor  aught  like  peace  within.    Yet  who  shall  say 
What  secret   thoughts  thine   inmost   heart  may 

•way  ? 
No  eye  but  Heaven's  may  pierce  that  curtain'd 

breast. 
Whose  joys  and  griefs  alike  are  unexprest. 

There  hath  been  combat  on  the  tented  plain ; 
The  Vega's  turf  is  red  with  many  a  stain. 
And  rent  and  trampled,  banner,  crest,  and  sliitli 
Tell  of  a  fierce  and  well-contested  field: 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


it ut  all  is  peaceful  now — the  west  is  bright 
With  the  rich  splendour  of  departing  light; 
Mulhacen's  peak,  half  lost  amidst  the  sky. 
Glows  like  a  purple  evening-cloud  on  high, 
And  tints,  that  mock  the  pencil's  art,  o'erspread 
Th'  eternal  snow  that  crowns  Veleta's  head.  (12) 
While  the  warm  sunset  o'er  the  landscape  throw* 
A  solemn  beauty,  and  a  deep  repose. 
Closed  art1  the  toils  and  tumults  of  the  day, 
And  Hauiet  wanders  from  the  camp  away, 
In  silent  musings  rapt:— the  slaughter'd  brave 
Lie  thickly  strewn  by  Darro's  rippling  wave. 
Soft  fall  the  dews— but  other  drops  have  dyed 
The  scented  shrubs  that  fringe  the  river-side, 
Beneath  whose  shade,  as  ebbing  life  retired. 
The  wounded  sought  a  shelter — and  expired.  (13) 
Lonely,  and  lost  in  thoughts  of  other  days, 
By  the  bright  windings  of  the  stream  he  strays, 
Till,  more  remote  from  battle's  ravaged  scene, 
All  is  repose,  aud  solitude  serene. 
There,  'ne.ath  an  olive's  ancient  shade  reclined, 
Whose  rustling  foliage  waves  in  evening's  wind, 
The  harass'd  warrior,  yielding  to  the  power, 
The  mild,  sweet  influence  of  the  tranquil  hour. 
Feels,  by  degrees,  a  long-forgotten  calm 
Shed  o'er  his  troubled  soul  unwonted  balm; 
His  wrongs,  his  woes,  his  dark  and  dubious  lot, 
The  past,  the  future,  are  awhile  forgot ; 
And   Hope,  scarce   own'd,   yet  stealing  o'er  his 

breast, 
Half  dares  to  whisper,  "Thou  shall  yet  be  blest  I" 

Such  his  vague  musings — but  a  plaintive  sound 
Breaks  on  the  deep  and  solemn  stillness  round  ; 
A  low  half-stifled  moan,  thai  seems  to  rise 
From  life  and  death's  contending  agonies. 
He  turns:  Who  shares  witli  him  that  lonely  shade? 
— A  youthful  warrior  on  his  death-bed  laid, 
All  rent  and  stain'd  his  broider'd  Moorish  vest, 
The  corslet  shatter'd  on  his  bleeding  breast  1 
In  his  cold  hand  the  broken  falchion  strain'd 
With  life's  last  force  convulsively  rolain'd; 
His  plumage  soil'd  with  dust,  with  crimson  dyed, 
And  the  red  lance,  in  fragments,  by  his  side; 
He  lies  forsaken — pillow'd  on  his  shield, 
His  helmet  raised,  his  lineaments  reveal'd. 
Pale  is  that  quivering  lip,  and  vanish'd  now 
The  light  once  throned  on  that  commanding  brow; 
And  o'er  that  fading  eye,  still  upward  cast, 
The  shades  of  death  are  gathering  dark  and  fast. 
Yet,  as  yon  rising  moon  her  light  serene 
Sheds  the  pale  olive's  waving  boughs  between. 
Too  well  can  Hamet's  conscious  heart  retrace. 
Though  changed  thus  fearfully  that  pallid  face, 
Whose  every  feature  to  his  soul  coiiVeys 
Some  bitter  thought  of  long-departed  days. 

"  Oh  I  is  it  thus,"  he  cries,  "we  meet  at  last? 
Friend  of  my  soul,  in  years  for  ever  past  I 
Hath  fate  but  led  me  hither  to  behold 
The  last  dread  struggle  ere  that  heart  is  cold. 
Receive  thy  latest  agonizing  breath, 
Ati'l,  \vith  vain  pity,  soothe  the  pangs  of  death? 
Yet  li;t  me  bear  thee  hence — while  life  remains, 
E'en  though  thus  feebly  circling  through  thy  veins, 
Some  lu-aling  b>ilm  thy  sense  may  still  revive, 
Hope  is  not  lost, —  and  Osmyri  yet  may  live  ! 
And  blest  were  he,  whose  timely  care  should  save 
A  heart  so  noble,  e'en  from  glory's  grave." 

Roused  by  those  accents,  from  his  lowly  bed 
The  dying  warrior  faintly  lifts  his  head  ; 
O'er  Harnet's  mien,  with  vague,  uncertain  gaze, 
His  doubtful  glance  awhile  bewilder'd  strays; 
Till,  by  degrees  a  smile  of  proud  disdain 
Lights  up  those  features  late  convulsed  with  pain  ; 
A  quivering  radiance  flashes  from  his  eye, 
TJiat  seems  too  pure,  too  full  of  soul,  to  die; 
^nd  the  mind's  grandeur  in  its  parting  hour 
Looks  from  that  brow  with  morci  than  wonted 
[mwer. 

"  Away !"  he  cries,  in  accents  of  command, 
Anii  proudly  waves  his  cold  and  trembling  hand, 
"  Apostate,  hence!  my  soul  shall  soon  be  free, 
E'fii  now  it  soars,  disdaining  aid  from  time  : 


'Tis  not  for  thee  to  close  the  fading  eyes 
Of  him  who  faithful  to  his  country  dies; 
Noffor  thy  hand  to  raise  the  drooping  head 
Of  him  who  sinks  to  rest  on  glory's  bed. 
Soon  shall  these  pangs  be  closed,  this  conflict  o'er 
And  worlds  be  mine  where  thou  canst  never  soar. 
Be  thine  existence  with  a  blighted  name, 
Mine  the  bright  death  which  seals  a  warrior'r 
fame  1" 

The  glow  hath  vanish'd  from  his  cheek — his  eye 
Hath  lost  that  beam  of  parting  energy; 
Frozen  and  fix'd  it  seems—  his  brow  is  chill ; 
One  struggle  more,— that  noble  heart  is  still. 
Departed  warrior  !  were  thy  mortal  throes. 
Were  thy  last  pangs,  ere  nature  found  repose, 
More  keen,  more  bitter,  than  th'  envenom'd  dart 
Thy  dying  words  have  left  in  Hamet's  heart! 
Thy  pangs  were  transient;  his  shall  sleep  no  mor» 
Till  life's  delirious  dream  itself  is  o'er ; 
But  thou  shalt  rest  in  glory,  and  thy  grave 
Be  the  pure  altar  of  the  patriot  brave. 
Oh.  what  a  change  that  little  hour  hath  wrought 
Fn  the  high  spirit  and  unbending  thought! 
Yet.  from  himself  each  keen  regret  to  hide, 
Siill  Hainct  struggles  with  indignant  pride; 
While  his  soul  rises  gathering  all  its  force, 
To  meet  the  fearful  conflict  with  remorse. 

To  time,  at  length,  whose  artless  love  hath  been 
His  own.   unchanged,    through   many  a  stor.uy 

scene  ; 

Zayda  !  to  thee  his  heart  for  refuge  flies; 
Thou  still  art  faithful  to  affection's  ties. 
Yes!  let  the  world  upbraid,  let  foes  contemn, 
Thy  gentle  breast  the  tide  will  firmly  stem  ; 
And  soon  thy  smile,  and  soft  consoling  voice, 
Shall  bid  his  troubled  soul  again  rejoice. 

Within  Granada's  walls  are  hearts  and  hands, 
Whose  aid  in  secret  Hamet  yet  commands; 
Nor  hard  the  task  at  some  propitious  hour, 
To  win  his  silent  way  to  Zayda's  bower, 
When  night  and  peace  are  brooding  o'er  the  world 
When  mute  the  clarions,  and  the  banners  furl'd. 
That  hour  is  come— and  o'er  thu  aims  he  bears 
A  wandering  fakir's  garb  the  chieftain  wears: 
Disguise  that  ill  from  piercing  eye  could  hide 
The  lofty  port,  and  glance  of  martial  pride  ; 
But   night   befriends  —  through  paths  obscui-e  ha 

pats'd, 

And  hail'd  the  lone  and  lovely  scene  at  last ; 
Young  Zayda's  chosen  haunt,  the  fair  alcove, 
Tlie  sparkling  fountain,  and  the  orange-grove; 
Calm  in  the  moonlight  smiles  the  still  retreat, 
As  form' d  alone  for  happy  hearts  to  meet. 
For  happy  hearts  ?— not  such  is  hers,  who  there 
Bends  o'er  her  lute,  with  dark,  unbraided  hair; 
That  maid  of  Zegri  race,  whose  eye,  whose  mien, 
Tell  that  despair  her  bosom's  guest  hath  been. 
So  lost  in  thought  she  seems,  the  warrior's  feet 
Unheard  approach  her  solitary  seat, 
Till  his  known  accents  every  sense  restore — 
"  My  own  loved  Zayda  !  do  we  meet  once  more  ?' 

She  starts,  she  tarns— the  lightning  of  surprise, 
Of  sudden  rapture,  flashes  from  her  eyes  : 
But  that  is  fleeting— it  is  past — and  now 
Far  other  meaning  darkens  o'er  her  brow; 
Changed  is  her  aspect,  and  her  tone  severe — 
"Hence, Aben  Zurrahldeathsurroundstheeherel" 

"  Zayda !  what  means  that  glance,  unlnce  thine 

own  ? 

What  mean  those  words,  and  that  unwonted  tone, 
I  will  not  deem  thee  changed— but  in  thy  face, 
It  is  not  joy,  it  is  not  love,  I  trace  ! 
It  was  not  thus  in  other  days  we  met: 
Hath  time,  hath  absence  taught  thee  to  forget? 
Oh  !  speak  once  more — these  rising  dounts  dispel, 
One  smile  of  tenderness,  and  all  is  well  I" 

"  Not  thus  we  met  in  other  days !  —oh  no! 
Thou  wert  not,  warrior,  then  thy  country's  foe  f 
Those  days  are  past — we  ne'er  shall  meet  again 
With  hea'rts  all  warmth,  all  confidence,  as  then 


30 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS, 


But  thy  dark  soul  no  gentler  feelings  sway! 
Leader  of  hostile  bands!  away,  away  ! 
On  in  thy  path  of  triumph  and  of  power. 
Nor  pause  to  raise  from  earth  a  blighted  flower." 

"  And  thou  too  changed!  thine  early  vow  forgot  1 
This,  this  alone,  was  wanting  to  my  lot ! 
Exiled  and  scorn'd,  of  every  tie  bereft. 
Thy  love,  the  desert's  lonely  fount,  was  left; 
And  thou,  my  soul's  last  hope,  its  lingering  beam, 
Thou,  the  good  angel  of  each  brighter  dream, 
Wert  all  the  barrenness  of  life  possest, 
To  wake  one  soft  affection  in  my  breast ! 
That  vision  ended—  faith  hath  naught  in  store. 
Of  joy  or  sorrow,  e'er  to  touch  me  more. 
Go,  Zfigri  maid  !  to  scenes  of  sunshine  fly. 
From  the  stern  pupil  of  adversity  ! 
And  now  to  hope,  to  confidence  adieu ! 
If  thou  art  faithless,  who  shall  e'er  be  true  ?" 

"  Hamet !  oh  wrong  me  not !— I  too  could  speak 
Of  sorrows — trace  them  on  my  faded  cheek. 
In  the  sunk  eye,  and  in  the  wasted  form, 
That  tell  the  heart  hath  nursed  a  canker-worm! 
But  words  were  idle — read  my  sufferings  there, 
Where  grief  is  stamp'd  on  all  that  once  was  fair. 

"  Oh,  wert  thou  still  what  once  I  fondly  deem'd, 
All  that  thy  mien  expressed,  thy  spirit  seem'd, 
My  love  had  been  devotion— till  in  death 
Thy  name  had  trembled  on  my  latest  breath. 
But  not  the  chief  who  leads  a  lawless  band, 
To  crush  the  altars  of  his  native  land  ; 
Th'  apostate  son  of  heroes,  whose  disgrace 
Hath  stain'd  the  trophies  of  a  glorious  race; 
Not  him  I  loved— but  one  whose  youthful  name 
Was  pure  and  radiant  in  unsullied  fame. 
Hadst  thou  but  died,  ere  yet  dishonour's  cloud 
O'er  that  young  name  had  gather'd  as  a  shroud, 
I  then  had  mourn'd  thee  proudly — and  my  grief 
In  its  own  loftiness  had  found  relief; 
A  noble  sorrow,  cherish'd  to  the  last. 
When  every  meaner  woe  had  long  been  past. 
ifes!  let  Affection  weep — no  common  tear 
She  sheds,  when  bending  o'er  a  hero's  bier. 
Let  Nature  mourn  the  dead — a  grief  like  this, 
To  pangs  that  rend  my  bnsom  had  been  bliss !" 

"  High-minded  maid !  the  time  admits  not  now 
To  plead  my  cause,  to  vindicate  my  vow. 
That  vow,  too  dread,  too  solemn  to  recall, 
Hath  urged  me  onward,  haply  to  my  fall. 
Yet  this  believe — no  meaner  aim  inspires 
My  soul,  no  dream  of  poor  ambition  fires. 
No  !  every  hope  of  power,  of  triumph,  fled, 
Behold  me  but  th'  avenger  of  the  dead  ! 
One  whose  changed  heart  no  tie,  no  kindred  knows 
And  in  thy  love  alone  hath  sought  repose. 
Zayda,  wilt  thou  his  stern  accuser  be? 
False  to  his  country,  he  is  true  to  thee  ! 
Oh,  hear  me  yet ! — if  Hamet  e'er  was  dear, 
By  our  first  vows,  our  young  affection,  hear! 
Soon  must  this  fair  and  royal  city  fall, 
Soon  shall  the  cross  be  planted  on  her  wall ! 
Then  who  can  tell  what  tides  of  blood  may  flow, 
While  her  fanes  echo  to  the  shrieks  of  woe  ? 
Fly,  fly  with  me,  and  let  me  bear  thee  far 
From  horrors  thronging  in  the  path  of  war: 
Fly !  and  repose  in  safety — till  the  blast 
Hath  made  a  desert  in  its  course — and  past." 

"Thou  that  wilt  triumph  when  the  hour  is  come, 
Husten'd  by  thee,  to  snal  thy  country's  doom, 
With  thee  from  scones  of  death  shall  Zayda  fly 
To  peace  and  safety  ? — Woman  too  can  die ! 
And  die  exulting,  though  unknown  to  fame, 
In  all  the  stainless  beauty  of  her  name ! 
Be  mine  unmurmuring,  undismay'd  to  share 
The  fate  my  kindred  and  my  sire  must  hear. 
And  deem  thou  not  my  feeble  heart  shall  fail. 
When  the  clouds  gather,  and  the  blasts  assail  ; 
Thou  hast  hut  known  me  ere  the  trying  hour 
Call'd  into  life  my  spirit's  latent  power  ; 
But  I  have  energies  that  idly  slept. 
While  withering  o'er  my  silent  woe§  I  wept 


And  now,  when  hope  and  happiness  are  fled, 
My  soul  is  firm  — for  what  remnins  to  dread  ? 
Who  shall  have  power  to  suffer  and  to  bear, 
If  strength  and  courage  dwell  not  with  Despair  I 

"Hamet,  farewell !— retrace  thy  path  again, 
To  join  thy  brethren  on  the  tented  plain. 
There  wave  and  wood,  in  minsled  murmurs,  It."1.. 
How,  in  far  other  cause,  thy  fathers  fell ! 
Ves!  on  that  soil  hath  Glory's  footstep  been, 
Names  uriforgotten  consecrate  the  scene. 
Dwell  not  the  souls  of  heroes  round  thee  tfwe, 
Whose  voices  call  thee  in  the  whispering  ail  ? 
Unheard,  in  vain,  they  call— their  fallen  son 
Hath  stain'd  the  name  those  mighty  spirits  won. 
And  to  the  hatred  of  the  brave  and  free 
Bequeath'd  his  own,  through  ages  yet  to  be!" 

Still  ns  she  spoke,  th'  enthusiast's  kindling  eye 
Wns  lighted  up  with  inborn  majesty, 
While  her  fair  form  and  youthful  features  caught 
All  the  proud  grandeur  of  heroic  thought, 
Severely  beauteous!  (14)  awe-struck  and  amazed, 
In  silent  trance  awhile  the  warrior  gazed 
As  on  some  lofty  vision— for  she  seem'd 
One  all  inspired— each  look  with  glory  beam'd, 
While  brightly  bursting  through  its  cloud  of  woes 
Her  soul  at  once  in  all  its  light  arose. 
Oh!  ne'er  had  Hamet  deem'd  there  dwelt  enshrined 
In  form  so  fragile,  that  unconquer'd  mind, 
And  fix'd.  as  by  some  high  enchantment,  there 
He  stood — till  wonder  yielded  to  despair. 

"The  dream  is  vanish'd— daughter  of  my  foes! 
Reft  of  each  hope,  the  lonely  wanderer  goes. 
Thy  words  have  pierced  his  soul — yet  deem  thou 

not 

Thou  couldst  be  once  adored,  and  e'er  forgot! 
O  form'd  for  happier  love!  heroic  maid! 
In  grief  sublime,  in  danger  undismay'd. 
Farewell,  and  be  thou  blest!— all  words  were  vain 
For  him  who  ne'er  may  view  that  form  again  . 
Hun,  whose  sole  thought,  resembling  bliss,  must  be, 
He  huih  been  loved,  once  fondly  loved,  by  thee!" 

And  is  the  warrior  gone? — doth  Zayda  hear 
His  patting  footstep,  and  without  u  tear  ? 
Thou  weep'st  not,  lofty  maid? — yet  who  can  tell 
What  secret  pangs  within  thy  heart  may  dwell? 
They  feel  not  least,  the  firm,  the  high  in  soul, 
Who  best  each  feeling's  agony  control. 
Yes  I  we  may  judge  the  measure  of  the  grief 
Which  finds  iu  Misery's  eloquence  relief; 
But  who  shall  pierce  those  depths  of  silent  woe. 
Whence  breathes  no  language,  whence  no  tears 

may  flow  ? 

The  pangs  that  many  a  noble  breast  hath  proved, 
Scorning  itself  that  thus  it  could  be  moved? 
He,  He  alone,  the  inmost  heart  who  knows, 
Views  all  its  weakness,  pities  all  its  throes. 
He  who  hath  mercy  when  mankind  contemn, 
Beholding  anguish— all  unknown  to  them. 

Fair  city!  thou,  that  'midst  thy  stately  fanes 
And  gilded  minarets,  towering  o'er  the  plains, 
In  eastern  grandeur  proudly  dost  arise 
Beneath  thy  canopy  of  deep-blue  skies, 
While  streams  that  bear  thee  treasures  in   theif 

wave,  (15) 

Thy  citron-groves  and  myrtle-gardens  lave; 
Mourn  !  for  thy  doom  is  fix'd — the  days  of  fear 
Of  chains,  of  wrath,  of  bitterness,  are  near! 
Within,  around  thee  are  the  trophieil  graves 
Of  kings  and  chiefs— their  children  shall  be  slaves 
Fair  are  thy  halls,  thy  domes  majestic  swell, 
But  there  a  race  that  rear'd  them  not  shall  dwell : 
For  'midst  thy  counsels  Discord  still  presides. 
Degenerate  fear  thy  wavering  monarch  guides. 
Last  of  a  line  whose  regal  spirit  flown 
Hath  to  their  offspring  but  bequeath'd  a  throne. 
Without  one  generous  thought,  or  feeling  high. 
To  teach  his  soul  how  kings  should  live  and  die 

A  voice  resounds  within  Granada's  wall, 
The  hearts  of  warriors  echo  to  its  call.  (Hi) 
Whose  are  those  tones  with  power  electric  fraught 
To  reach  the  source  of  pure,  exalted  tli  .night? 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WOKKS. 


II 


Bee  on  a  fortress-tower,  with  beckoning  bind, 
A  form,  majestic  as  a  prophet,  stand ! 
His  mien  is  all  impassion'd— and  his  eye 
Fill'd  with  a  light  whose  fountain  is  on  high; 
Wild  on  the  gale  his  silvery  tresses  flow, 
And  inspiration  beams  upon  his  brow, 
While,  thronging  round  him,  breathless  thousands 

gaze, 
As  on  some  mighty  seer  of  elder  days. 

"  Saw  ye  the  banners  of  Castile  displayed, 
The  helmets  glittering,  and  the  line  array'd  ? 
Heard  ye  the  inarch  of  steel-clad  hosts?  he  cries, 
"Children  of  conquerors!  in  your  strength  arise 
O  high-born  tribes  :  oh  names  unstain'd  by  fear  ! 
Azarques,  Zegris,  Almoradis,  hear!  (17) 
Be  every  feud  forgotten,  and  your  hands 
Dyed  with  no  blood  but  that  of  hostile  bands.  (18) 
Wake,  princes  of  the  land  !  the  hour  is  come, 
And  the  red  sabre  must  decide  your  doom. 
Where  is  that  spirit  which  prevail'd  of  yore, 
When    Tarik's    bands    o'erspread    the   western 

shore?  (19) 

When  the  long  combat  raged  on  Xeres'  plain,  (20) 
And  Afric's  tecbirswellVI  thro' yielding  Spain?  (21) 
Is  the  lance  broken,  is  the  shield  decay'd. 
The  warrior's  arm  unstrung,  his  heart  dnmay'd  ? 
Shall  no  high  spirit  of  ascending  worth 
Arise  to  lead  the  sons  of  Islam  ibrth? 
To  guard  the  regions  where  our  fathers'  blood 
Hath  bathed  each  plain,  and  mingled  with  each 

flood, 

Where  long  their  dust  hath  blended  with  the  soil 
Won  by  their  swords,  made  fertile  by  their  toil  1 

"  O  ye  sierras  of  eternal  snow  ! 
Ye  streams  that  by  the  tombs  of  heroes  flow, 
Woods,  fountains,  rocks,  of  Spain  1  ye  saw  their 

might 

In  many  a  fierce  and  unforgotten  fight ! 
Shall  ye  behold  their  lost,  degenerate  race, 
Dwell  'midst  your  scenes  in  fetters  and  disgrace? 
With  each  memorial  of  the  past  around, 
Each  mighty  monument  of  days  renown'd  1 
May  this  indignant  heart  ere  then  be  cold, 
This  frame  be  gather'd  to  its  kindred  mould  ! 
And  the  last  life-drop  circling  through  my  veins 
Have  tinged  a  soil  untainted  yet  by  chains! 

"  And  yet  one  struggle  ere  our  doom  is  seal'd, 
One  mighty  effort,  one  deciding  field  ! 
If  vain  each  hope,  we  still  have  choice  to  be, 
fn  life  the  fetter'd,  or  in  death  the  free  !" 

Still  while  he  speaks,  each  gallant  heart  beats 

high, 

And  ardour  flashes  from  each  kindling  eye  ; 
Youth,  manhood,  age,  as  if  inspired,  have  caught 
The  glow  :>f  lofty  hope  and  daring  thought. 
And  all  is  hush'd  around — as  every  sense 
Dwelt  on  the  tones  of  that  wild  eloquence. 

But  when  his  voice  hath  ceased,  th'  impetuous  cry 
Of  eager  thousands  burst  at  once  on  high; 
Rampart,  and  rock,  and  fortress,  ring  around, 
And  fair  Alhambra's  inmost  halls  resound  : 
"Lead  us,  O  chieftain  !  lead  us  to  the  strife, 
To  fame  in  death,  or  liberty  in  life !" 
O  zeal  of  noble  hearts  !  in  vain  display'd  I 
High  feeling  wasted!  generous  hope  betray'd! 
Now,  while  the  burning  spirit  of  the  brave 
Is  roused  to  energies  that  yet  might  save, 
ET«n  now  enthusiasts  !  while  ye  rush  to  claim 
Your  glorious  trial  on  the  field  of  fame. 
Your  king  hath  yielded!  Valour's  dream  is  o'er,  (22) 
Power,  wealth,   and  freedom,   are  your  own  no 

more  ; 

And  for  your  children's  portion,  but  remains 
Thai  bitter  heritage— tne  stranger's  chains. 


CANTO  III. 


Frrmoni  il  fin  il  cor  che  balzo  tanto. 

Ippoltto  Pinitnumti. 

HEROES  of  elder  days  !  untaught  to  yield, 
Who  bled  for  Spain  on  many  an  ancient  field, 
Ye,  that  around  the  oaken  cross  of  yore  (23) 
Stood  firm  and  fearless  on  Asturia's  shore. 
And  with  your  spirit,  ne'er  to  be  subdued, 
Hallow'd  the  wild  Cantabrian  solitude; 
Rejoice  amidst  your  dwellings  of  repose, 
In  the  last  chastening  of  your  Moslem  foes! 
Rejoice! — for  Spain,  arising  in  her  strength, 
Hath  burst  the  remnant  of  their  yoke  at  lengtk 
And  they  in  turn  the  cup  of  woe  must  drain. 
And  bathe  their  fetters  with  their  tears  in  vain 
And  thou,  the  warrior  born  in  happy  hour,  (24) 
Valencia's  lord,  whose  name  alone  is  power, 
Theme  of  a  thousand  songs  in  days  gone  by. 
Couquerer  of  Kings  !  exult,  OC'id!  on  high. 
For  still  'twas  thine  to  guard  thy  country's  weal, 
In  life,  in  death,  the  watcher  for  Castile  I 

Thou,  in  that  hour  when  Mauritania's  bandi 
Rush'd  from  their  palmy  groves  and  burning  land* 
E'en  in  the  realm  of  spirits  didst  retain 
A  patriot's  vigilance,  remembering  Spain! (25) 
Then,  at  deep  midnight,  rose  the  mighty  sound. 
By  Leon  heard,  in  shuddering  awe  profound. 
As  through  her  echoing  streets  in  dread  array. 
Beings,  once  mortal,  held  their  viewless  way  ; 
Voices  from  worlds  we  know  not — and  the  tread 
Of  marching  hosts,  the  armies  of  the  dead, 
Thou  and  thy  buried  chieftains — from  the  grave 
Then  did  thy  summons  rouse  a  king  to  save. 
And  join  thy  warriors  with  unearthly  might 
To  aid  the  rescue  in  Tolosa's  fight. 
Those  days  are  past— the  crescent  on  thy  shore, 
O  realm  of  evening!  sets,  to  rise  no  more.  (20) 
What  banner  streams  afar  from  Vela's  tower 
The  cross,  bright  ensign  of  Iberia's  power! 
What  the  glad  shout  of  each  exulting  voice  ? 
"  Castile  and  Arragon  !  rejoice,  rejoice  I" 
Yielding  free  entrance  to  victorious  foes, 
The  Moorish  city  sees  her  gates  unclose. 
And  Spain's  proud  host,  with  pennon,  shield,  and 

lance, 
Through  her  long  streets  in  knightly  garb  advance. 

Oh!  ne'er  in  lofty  dreams  hath  Fancy's  eye 
Dwelt  on  a  scene  of  statelier  pageantry. 
At  joust  or  tourney,  theme  of  poet's  lore, 
High  masque,  or  solemn  festival  of  yore. 
The  gilded  cupolas,  that  proudly  rise 
O'erarch'd  by  cloudless  and  cerulean  shies, 
Tall  minarets,  shining  mosques,  barbaric  tower*, 
Fountains,  and  palaces,  and  cypress  bowers ; 
And  they,  the  splendid  and  triumphant  throng. 
With  helmets  glittering  as  they  move  along. 
With  broider'd  scarf,  and  gem-bestudded  mail, 
And  graceful  plumage  streaming  on  the  gale  ; 
Shields  gold-emboss'd,  and  pennons  floating  far, 
And  all  the  gorgeous  blazonry  of  war. 
All  brighten'd  by  the  rich  transparent  hues 
That  southern  suns  o'er  heaven  and  earth  diffuse, 
Blend  in  one  scene  of  glory,  form'd  to  throw 
O'er  memory's  page  a  never-fading  glow. 
And   there  too,  foremost  'midst  the  conquering 

brave, 

Your  azure  plumes,  O  Aben-Zurr«hs  !  wave. 
There  Hamet  moves;  the  chief  whose  Softy  port 
Seems  nor  approach  to  shun,  nor  praise  to  court, 
Calm,  stern,  collected  — yet  within  his  breast 
Is  there  no  pang,  no  struggle  unconfcst  ? 
If  such  there  be,  it  still  must  dwell  unseen. 
Nor  c  oud  a  triumph  with  a  sufferer's  mien. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Hear'st  thou  the  solemn,  yet  exulting  sound, 
Of  the  deep  anthem  floating  far  around  ? 
The  choral  voices  to  the  skies  that  raise 
The  full  majestic  harmony  of  praise  ? 
Lo !  where,  surrounded  by  their  princely  train. 
They  come,  the  sovereigns  of  rejoicing  Spain, 
Bornn  on  their  trophieii  car — lo  !  bursting  thence 
A  blaze  of  chivalrous  magnificence ! 

Onward  their  slow  and  stately  course  they  bend 
To  where  th'  Alhambra's  ancient  towers  ascenM 
Rear'd  and  ariorn'd  by  Moorish  kings  of  yore, 
VVbose  lost  descendants  there  shall  dwell  no' 

They  reach  those  towers — irregularly  vai  , 
And  rude  they  seem,  in  mould  barbaric  ca.  t:  (28) 
They  enter— to  their  wondering  sight  is  given 
A  genii  palace— :in  Arabian  heaven  !  (29) 
A  scene  by  magic  raised,  so  strange,  so  fair, 
Its  forms  and  colours  seem  alike  of  air. 
Here  by  sweet  orange-houghs,  half  shaded  o'er, 
The  deep  clear  bath  reveals  its  marble  floor. 
Its  margin  fringed  with  flowers,  whose  glowing 

hues 

The  calm  transparence  of  its  wave  suffuse. 
There,  round  the  court,  where  Moorish  arches  bend, 
Aerial  columns,  richly  deck'd,  ascend; 
Unlike  the  models  of  each  classic  race, 
Of  Doric  grandeur,  or  Corinthian  grace, 
But  answering  well  each  vision  that  portrays 
Arabian  splendour  to  the  poet's  gaze  : 
Wild,  wondrous,  brilliant,  all— a  mingling  j!»w 
Of  rainbow  tints,  above,  around,  below  ; 
Brignt-sireaming  from  the  many-tinctured  veins 
Of  precious  marble — and  the  vivid  stains 
Of  rich  mosaics  o'er  the  light  arcade. 
In  gay  festoons  and  fairy  knots  display'd. 

On  through  th'  enchanted  realm,  that  only  seem* 
Meet  for  the  radiant  creatures  of  our  dreams. 
The  royal  conquerors  pass — while  still  their  sight 
On  some  new  wonder  dwells  with  fresh  delight. 
Here  the  eye  roves  through  slender  colonnades, 
O'er  bowery  terraces  and  myrtle  shades, 
Dark  olive-woods  beyond,  and  far  on  high 
The  vast  sierra,  mingling  with  the  sky. 
There,  scattering  far  around  their  diamond  spray. 
Clear  streams  from  founts  of  alabaster  play, 
ThroaS"  pi'lar'd  halls,  where,  exquisitely  wrought, 
Rich  arh;'sques,  with  glittering  foliage  fraught. 
Surmount  each  fretted  arch,  and  lend  the  scene 
A  wild,  romantic,  oriental  mien  : 
While  many  a  verse  from  eastern  banla  of  oJd, 
Borders  the  wall  in  characters  of  gold.  (30) 
Here  Moslem  luxury,  in  her  own  domain, 
Hath  held  for  ages  her  voluptuous  reign 
'Midst  gorgeous  domes,  where  soon  shall  silence 

brood. 

And  all  be  lone — a  splendid  solitude. 
Now  wake  their  echoes  to  a  thousand  songs, 
From  mingling  voices  of  exulting  throngs; 
Tambour,  and  flute,  and  atabal,  are  there,  (31) 
And  joyous  clarions  pealing  on  the  air, 
While  every  hall  resounds,  "  Granada  won  ! 
Granada  !  for  Castile  and  Arragon  !"  (32) 

'T  is  night— from  dome  and  tower,  in  dazzling 

maze. 

The  festal  lamps  innumerably  blaze  ;  (33) 
Through  long  arcades  their  quivering  lustre  gleams. 
From  every  lattice  tremulously  streams, 
'Midst  orange-gardens  plays  on  fount  and  rill, 
And  gilds  the  waves  of  Darro  and  Xenil ; 
Red  flame  the  torches  on  each  minaret's  height, 
And  shines  each  street  an  avenue  of  light  ; 
And  midnight  feasts  are  held,  and  music's  voice 
Through  the  long  night  still  summons  to  rejoice. 

Yet  thf  re.  while  all  would  seem  to  heedless  eye 
One  blaze  of  pomp,  one  hurst  of  revelry. 
Are  hearts  tinsoothed  by  those  delusive  hours, 
GalPd   by   the  chain,  though  deck'd  awhile  with 

flowers ; 

Btern  passions  workine  in  th'  indignant  breast, 
Deep  pangs  untold,  hreh  feelings  unexprest. 
Heroic  spirits,  unsiihmitting  yet, 
Vengeance,  and  keen  remorse,  and  vain  regret. 


From  yon  proud  height,  whose  olive-shaded  brow 
Commands  the  wide  luxuriant  plains  below, 
Who  lingering  gazes  o'er  the  lovely  scene, 
Anguish  and  shame  contending  in  his  mien? 
He,  who,  of  heroes  and  of  kings  the  son, 
Hath  lived  to  la*-  -vhate'er  his  fathers  won, 
Whose  dou>>'    -nd  fears  his  people's  fate  hav« 

vr"    ., 

Wa~-    .^x  alike  in  crmnejl  and  in  field  ; 
*""*   ^,  timid  ruler  of  the  wise  and  brave, 
..all  a  fierce  tyrant  or  a  yielding  slave. 

Far  from  these  vine-clad  hills  and  azure  skies, 
To  Afrir.'s  wilds  the  royal  exile  flies,  (34) 
Vet  pauses  on  his  way,  lo  weep  in  vain. 
O'er  all  he  never  must  behold  again. 
Fair  spreads  the  scene  around — for  him  too  fair. 
Each  glowing  charm  but  deepens  his  despair. 
The  Vega's  meads,  the  city's  glittering  spires, 
The  old  majestic  palace  of  his  sires, 
The  gay  pavilions,  and  retired  alcoves, 
Bosom'd  in  citron  and  pomegranate  groves; 
Tower-crested  rocks,  and  streams  that  wind  fe> 

light. 

All  in  one  moment  bursting  on  his  sigftt. 
Speak  to  his  soul  of  glory's  vanish'd  y**"1, 
And  wake  the  source  of  unavailing  tewt 
— Weep'st   thou,  Abdallah  ?  — Thou  dor 

weep, 

O  feeble  heart!  o'er  all  thou  couldst  not  »•»•«• 
Well  do  a  woman's  tears  befit  the  eye 
Of  him  who  knew  not,  as  a  man,  to  die.  (35) 

The    gale    sighs   mournfully    through   Zayda's 

bower. 

The  hand  is  gone  that  nursed  each  infant  flower 
No  voice,  no  step,  is  in  her  father's  halls, 
Mute  are  the  echoes  of  their  marble  walls 
No  stranger  enters  at  the  chieftain's  gate, 
But  all  is  htish'd,  and  void,  and  desolate. 

There,  through  each  tower  and  solitary  shade, 
In  vain  doth  Hamet  seek  the  Zegri  maid  ; 
Her  grove  is  silent,  her  pavilion  lone. 
Her  lute  forsaken,  and  her  doom  unknown  ; 
And  through  the  scene  she  loved,  unheeded  flows 
The  stream  whose  music  lull'd  her  to  repose. 

But  oh!  to  him  whose  self-accusing  thought 
Whispers  'twas  he  that  desolation  wrought: 
He  who  his  country  and  his  faith  beuay'd. 
And  lent  Castile  revengeful,  powerful  aid; 
A  vcico  of  sorrow  swells  in  every  gale. 
Each  wive,  low  rippling,  tells  a  mournful  tale  ; 
And  as  the  shrubs,  untended,  unconfined, 
In  wild  exuberance  rustle  to  the  wind, 
E'.tfi  leaf  hath  language  to  his  startled  sense, 
And  seems  to  murmur — "Thou  hast  driven  hei 

hence !" 

And  well  he  feel?  to  trace  her  flight  were  vain, 
— Where  hath  lost  love  been  once  recall'd  again  ? 
In  her  pure  breast,  so  long  by  anguish  torn, 
His  name  can  rouse  no  feeling  now  but  scorn. 
O  hitter  hour !  when  first  the  shuddering  heart 
Wakes  to  behold  the  void  within — and  start! 
To  feel  its  own  abandonment,  and  brood 
O'er  the  chill  bosom's  depth  of  solitude. 
The  stormy  passions  that  in  Hamet's  breast 
Have  sway'd  so  long,  so  fiercely,  are  at  rest ! 
Th'  avenger's  task  is  closed  :  (90) — he  finds  too  late, 
It  hath  not  changed  his  feelings,  but  his  fate. 
His  was  a  lofty  spirit,  turned  aside 
From  its  bright  path  by  woes,  and  wrongs,  and 

pride, 

And  onward,  in  its  new  tumultuous  course. 
Borne  with  too  rapid  and  intense  a  force 
To  pause  one  moment  in  the'  dread  career. 
And  ask — if  such  could  be  its  native  sphere. 
Now  are  those  days  of  wild  delirium  o'er. 
Their  fears  and  hopes  excite  his  soul  no  more  ; 
The  feverish  energies  of  passion  close, 
And  his  heart  sinks  in  desolate  repose, 
Turns  sickening  from  the  world,  yet  shrinks  no* 

less 
From  its  own  deep  and  utter  loneliness. 

There  is  a  sound  of  voices  on  the  air, 
A  flash  of  armour  in  the  sunbeam's  glare, 
VOL.  I.— 8 


HEMA.NS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


•Midgtthe  wild  Alpuxarras;  (3T)— there,  on  high 
Where  mountain-snows  are  mingled  with  the 

sky. 

A  few  brave  tribes,  with  spirit  yet  unbroke, 
Have  fled  indignant  from  the  Spaniard'ayoke. 

O  ye  dread  scenes,  where  Nature  dwells  alone, 
Severely  glorious  on  her  craggy  throne; 
Ye  citadels  of  rock,  gigantic  forms, 
Veil  'd  by  the  mists,  and  girdled  by  the  storms ; 
Rivine«,  aud  glens,  and  deep  resounding  caves, 
Thu*  uld  communion  with  the  torrent-waves; 
And  ye.  the  unstain'dand  everlasting  snows, 
That  dwell  above  in  bright  and  still  repose: 
'J  o  you,  in  every  clime,  in  every  age, 
Far  from  the  tyrants  or  the  conquror's  rage, 
Math  Freedom  led  her  sons;  untired  to  keep 
Her  fearless  vigils  on  the  barren  steep 
Khe  like  the  mountain  Eaglo  still  delights 
To  f,'«ze  exulting  from  unconquer'd  heights, 
And  build  her  erie  in  defiance  proud, 
To  dare  the  wind  and  mingle  with  the  cloud. 

Kow  her  deep  voice,  the  soul's  awakener,  swells, 
Wild  Alpuxarras,  through  your  inmost  dells, 
There,  thedark glens  and  lonely  rocks  among, 
As  at  the  clarion's  call,  her  children  throng. 
She  with  enduring  strength  hath  nerved  each  frame, 
And  made  each  heart  the  temple  of  her  flame, 
Her  own  resisting  spirit,  which  shall  glow 
Dnauenchably,  surviving  all  below. 

There  high-born  maids,  that  moved   upon  the 

earth. 

More  like  brieht  creatures  of  ae'rial  birth, 
Nurslings  of  palaces.  Jiave  fleil  to  share 
The  fate  of  brothers  and  of  sires  ;  to  bear. 
All  undismav'd,  privation  and  distress. 
And  smile,  the  roses  of  the  wilderness. 
And  mothers  with  their  infants,  there  to  dwell 
In  the  deep  forest  or  the  c:.v rn  cell. 
And  rear  their  offspring  'midst  thr  rocks  to  be 
If  now  no  mor"  Hi"  ini-htv.  Mill  Hie  free 
And  'midst  that  band  of  veterans,  a'er  whoM 

head 

Borrows  and  years  their  mingled  snow  have  shed: 
They  saw  thy  glory,  they  iiave  wept  thy  fall, 
O  royal  city!  and  the  wreck  of  all 
They  loved  and  hallowed  most :— doth  aught  re- 
main 

For  these  to  prove  of  happiness  or  pain  ? 
Life's  cup  is  drain'd—  earth  fades  before  their  eye, 
*>  :ieir  task  is  closing — they  have  but  to  die. 
i.sk  ye.  why  fled  they  hitlier?— that  their  doom 
Might  be  to  sink  unfetter'd  to  the  tomb. 
And  youth,  in  all  its  pride  of  strength,  is  there, 
And  buoyancy  of  spirit,  form'd  to  dare 
And  suffer  all  things,— fallen  on  evil  days, 
Yet  darting  o'er  the  world  an  ardent  gaze, 
As  on  th'  arena,  where  its  powers  may  find 
Full  scope  to  strive  for  glory  with  mankind. 

Such  are  the  tenants  of  the  mountain-hold, 
The  high  in  heart,  unconquer'd,  uncontroll'd ; 
By  day  the  huntsman  of  the  wild— by  night. 
Unwearied  guardians  of  the  watch-fire's  light. 
They  from  their  bleak,  majestic  home  have  caught 
A  sterner  tone  of  unsubmitting  thought, 
While  all  around  them  bids  the  soul  arise, 
To  blend  with  Nature's  dread  sublimities. 
— But  these  are  lofty  dreams,  and  must  not  be 
Where  tyranny  is  near: — the  bended  knee, 
The  eye,  whose  glance  no  inborn  grandeur  firei, 
And  the  tamed  heart,  are  tributes  she  requires; 
Nor  must  the  dwellers  of  the  rock  look  down 
On  regal  conquerors  and  defy  their  frown. 
What  warrior-band  is  toiling  to  explore 
The   mountain-pass,   with   pine-wood    shadow'd 

o'er? 

Ptartline  with  martial  sound  each  rude  recess. 
Where  the  deep  echo  slept  in  loneliness. 
These  are  the  sons  of  Spain!— Your  foes  are  near: 
Oh,  exiles  of  the  wild  sierra !  hear ! 
Hear!  wake!  arise!  and  from  your  inmost  cave* 
Pour  like  the  torrent  in  its  might  of  waves) 


Who  leads  th'  invaders  on  ? — his  features  bear 
The  deap-worn  traces  of  a  calm  despair; 
Yet  his  dark  brow  is  haughty— and  his  eye 
Speaks  of  a  soui  that  asks  not  sympathy, 
"fis  he  I  'tis  he  again  !  the  apostate  chief; 
He  comes  in  all  the  sternness  of  his  grief. 
He  comes,  but  changed  in  heart,  no  more  to  wield 
Falchion  for  proud  Castile  in  battle-field, 
Against  hia  country's  children — though  he  leads 
Dastilian  bands  again  to  hostile  deeds: 
His  hope  is  but  from  ceaseless  pangs  to  fly, 
To  rush  upon  the  Moslem  spears  and  die 
So  shall  remorse  and  love  the  heart  release, 
Which  dares  not  dream  of  joy,  but  sighs  for  peace 
The  mountain-echoes  are  awake — a  sound 
Of  strife  is  rising  through  the  rocks  around. 
Within  the  steep  defile  that  winds  between 
Cliffs  piled  on  cliffs,  a  dark,  terrific  scene. 
There  Moorish  exile  and  Castilian  knight 
Are  wildly  mingled  in  the  serried  fight. 
Red  flows  the  foaming  streamlet  of  the  glen, 
Whose  bright  transparence  ne'er  was  stain'd 

till  then; 

While  swell  the  war-notes  and  the  clash  of  spears, 
To  the  bleak  dwellings  of  the  mountaineers, 
Wherh  thy  sad  daughters,  lost  Grenada!  wait 
In  dread  suspense,  the  tidings  of  their  fate. 
But  he — whose  spirit  panting  for  its  rest, 
Would  fain  each  sword  concentrate  in  his  breast — 
Who,  whpre  a  spear  is  pointed,  or  a  lance 
Aim'd  at  another's  breast,  would  still  advance 
Courts  death  in  vain;  each  weapon  glances  by, 
As  if  for  him  't  were  bliss  too  great  to  die. 
Yes!  Aben-Zurrahl  there  are  deeper  woes; 
Reserved  for  thee,  ere  Nature's  last  repose ; 
Thou  know'st  not  yet  what  vengeance  fate  caa 

wreak, 

Nor  all"  the  heart  can  suffer  ere  it  break. 
Doubtful  and  long  the  strife,  and  bravely  fell 
The  sons  of  battle  in  that  narrow  dell ; 
Youth  in  'ts  light  of  beauty  there  hath  past, 
And  age,  the  weary,  found  repose  at  last; 
Till  few  and  faint  the  Moslem  tribes  recoil. 
Borne  down  by  numbers  and  o'erpower'd  by  toil. 
Dispersed,  dishearten'd  through  the  pass  they  fly. 
Pierce  the  deep  wood,  or  mount  the  cliff  on  high 
While  Hamet's  band  in  wonder  gaze,  nor  dare 
Track  o'er  their  dizzy  path  the  footsteps  of  despair. 

Yet  he  to  whom  each  danger  hath  become 
A  dark  delight,  and  every  wild  a  home, 
Still  urges  onward — undismay'd  to  tread 
Where  life's  fond  lovers  would  recoil  with  dread, 
But  fear  is  for  the  happy — they  may  shrink 
From  the  steep  precipice,  or  torrent's  brink ; 
They  to  whom  earth  is  paradise — their  doom 
Lends  no  stern  courage  to  approach  the  tomb; 
Not  such  his  lot,  who,  school'd  by  fate  severe. 
Were  but  too  bless'd  if  aught  remain'd  to  fear.  (38) 
Up  the  rude  crags,  whose  giant  masses  throw 
Eternal  shadows  o'er  the  glen  below ; 
And  by  the  fall  whose  many-tinctured  spray 
Half  in  a  mist  of  radiance  veils  its  way, 
He  holds  his  venturous  track : — supported  now 
By  some  o'erhanging  pine  or  ilex  bough; 
Now  by  some  jutting  stone  that  seems  to  dwell 
Half  in  mid-air,  as  balanced  by  a  spell : 
Now  liat'i  his  footsteps  gain'd  the  summit's  head, 
A  level  span,  with  emerald  verdure  spread, 
A  fairy  circle— there  the  heath-flowers  rise. 
And  the  rock-rose  unnoticed  blooms  and  dies; 
And  brightly  plays  the  stream,  ere  yet  its  tide 
In  foam  and  thunder  cleave  the  mountain  side; 
But  all  is  wild  beyond — and  Hamet's  eye 
Koves  o'er  a  world  of  rude  sublimity. 
That  dell  beneath,  where  e'en  at  noon  of  day 
Earth's  charter'd  guest,  the  sunbeam,  scarce  can 

stray ; 

Around,  untrodden  woods  ;  and  far  above, 
Where  mortal  footstep  ne'er  may  hope  to  rove, 
Bare  granite  cliffs,  whose  fix'd,  inherent  dies 
Kival  the  tints  that  float  o'er  summer  skies  ; (39) 
And  the  pure  glitteiing  snow-realm,  yet  mur 
That  seems  a  part  of  heaven's  eternity. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


There  IB  no  track  of  man  where  Hamet  stands 
Pathless  the  scene  as  Libya's  desert  sands ; 
Yet  on  the  calm,  still  air,  a  sound  is  heard 
Of  distant  voices,  and  the  gathering-word 
Of  Islam's  tribes,  now  faint  and  fainter  grown, 
Now  but  the  lingering  echo  of  a  tone. 

That  sound,  whose  cadence  dies  upon  his  ear, 
He  follows,  reckless  if  his  bands  are  near. 
On  by  the  rushing  stream  his  way  he  bends. 
And  through  the  mountain's  forest  zone  ascends 
Piercing  the  still  and  solitary  shades 
Of  ancient  pines,  and  dark,  luxuriant  glades, 
Eternal  twilight's  reign  : — those  mazes  past. 
The  glowing  sunbeams  meet  his  eyes  at  last. 
And  the  lone  wanderer  now  hath  reach'd  the  source 
Whence  the  wave  gushes,  foaming  on  its  course. 
But  there  he  pauses — for  the  lonely  scene 
Towers  in  such  dread  magnificence  of  mien. 
And,  mingled  oft  with  some  wild  eagle's  cry. 
From  rock-built  eyrie  rushing  to  the  sky, 
So  deep  the  solemn  and  majestic  sound 
Of  forests,  and  of  waters  murmuring  round. 
That,  rapt  in  wondering  awe,  his  heart  forgets 
Its  fleeting  struggles,  and  its  vain  regrets. 
— What  earthly  feeling  unabash'd  can  dwell 
In  Nature's  mighty  presence  ? — 'midst  the  swell 
Of  everlasting  hills,  the  roar  of  floods, 
And  frown  of  rocks,  and  pomp  of  waving  woods  T 
These  their  own  grandeur  on  the  soul  impress, 
And  bid  each  passion  feel  its  nothingness. 

'Midst  the  vast  marble  cliffs,  a  lofty  cave 
Rears  its  broad  arch  beside  the  rushing  wave; 
Shadow'd  by  giant  oaks,  and  rude,  and  lone. 
It  seems  the  temple  of  some  power  unknown. 
Where  earthly  being  may  not  dare  intrude 
To  pierce  the  secrets  of  the  solitude. 
Yet  thence  at  intervals  a  voice  of  wail 
la  rising,  wild  and  solemn,  on  the  gale. 
Did  thy  bean  thrill,  O  Hamet,  at  the  tone? 
Came  it  not  o'er  thee  as  a  spirit's  moan  7 
As  some  loved  sound  that  long  from  earth  had  fled. 
The  un  forgotten  accents  of  the  dead  ? 
E'en  thus  it  rose — and  springing  from  bis  trance 
His  eager  footsteps  to  the  sound  advance. 
He  mounts  the  cliffs,  he  gains  the  cavern  floor ; 
Ita  dark  green  moss  with  blood  is  sprinkled  o'er: 
He  rushes  on— and  lo  !  where  Zayda  rends 
Her  locks,  as  o'er  her  slaughter'd  sire  she  bends, 
Lost  in  despair; — yet  as  a  step  draws  nigh, 
Disturbing  sorrow's  lonely  sanctity, 
She  lifts  her  head,  and  all  subdued  by  grief, 
Views,  with  a  wild,  sad  smile,  the  once-loved  chief; 
While  rove  her  thoughts,  unconscious  of  the  past, 
And  every  woe  forgetting— but  the  last. 

"  Com'st  thou  to  weep  with  me  ?— for  I  am  left 
Alone  on  earth,  of  every  tie  bereft. 
Low  lies  the  warrior  on  his  blood-stain'd  bier ; 
His  child  may  call,  but  he  no  more  shall  hear  ! 
He  sleeps — but  never  shall  those  eyes  unclose; 
'Twas  not  my  voice  that  lull'd  him  to  repose, 
Nor  can  it  break  his  slumbers. — Dost  thou  mourn  ? 
And  is  thy  heart,  like  mine,  with  anguish  tort.  7 
Weep  and  my  soul  a  joy  in  grief  shall  know, 
That  o'er  his  grave  my  tears  with  Hamet's  flow  1" 

But  scarce  her  voice  had  bre«;i*sd  that  well- 
known  name. 

When,  swiftly  rushing  o'er  her  spirit,  came 
Each  dark  remembrance ;  by  affliction's  powci 
Awhile  effaced  in  that  o'erwhelming  hour, 
To  wake  with  tenfold  strength;— 'twas  then  her 

eye 

Resumed  its  light,  her  mien  its  majesty, 
And  o'er  her  wasted  cheek  a  burning  glow 
Spreads,  while  her  lip's  indignant  accents  flow. 

"  Away !  I  dream— oh,  how  hath  sorrow's  might 
Bow'd  down  my  soul,  and  quench'd  its  native  light. 
That  I  shoura  thus  forget !  and  bid  thy  tear 
With  mine  be  mingled  o'er  a  father's  bier  I 
Did  he  not  perish,  haply  by  thy  hand. 
In  the  last  combat  with  thy  ruthless  band  7 


The  morn  beheld  that  conflict  ol  despair:— 
'T  was  then  he  fell — he  fell !— and  thou  wert  luerel 
Thou  !  who  thy  country's  children  hast  pursued 
To  their  last  refuge  'midst  these  mountains  rude. 
Was  it  for  this  I  loved  thee?— Thou  hast  taught 
My  soul  all  grief,  all  bitterness  of  thought ! 
'Twill  soon  be  past — I  bow  to  Heaven's  decree. 
Which  bade  each  pang  be  miuisler'd  by  thee." 

"  I  had  not  deem'd  that  aught  reuiain'd  below 
For  me  to  prove  of  yet  untasted  woe; 
Kut  thus  to  meet  thee,  Zayda !  can  impart 
One  more,  one  keener  agony  of  heart. 
Oh,  hear  me  yet! — I  would  have  died  to  save 
My  foe,  but  still  thy  father,  from  the  grave ; 
But  in  the  fierce  confusion  of  the  strife. 
In  my  own  stern  despair  and  scorn  of  life. 
Borne  wildly  on,  I  saw  not,  knew  not  aught, 
Save  that  to  perish  there  in  vain  I  sought. 
And  let  me  share  thy  sorrows — hadst  thou  known 
All  I  have  felt  in  silence  and  alone. 
E'en  thou  might'st  then  relent,  and  deem  at  last 
A  grief  like  mine  might  expiate  all  the  past. 

"  But  oh !  for  thee,  the  loved  and  precious  flower, 
So  fondly  rear'd  in  luxury's  guarded  bower, 
From  every  danger,  every  storm  secured, 
How  hast  thou  suffer'd  !  what  hast  thou  endured 
Daughter  of  palaces  !  and  can  it  be 
That  this  bleak  desert  is  a  home  for  thee  ? 
These  rocks   thy  dwelling!    thou,   who  shouldit 

have  known 

Of  life  the  sunbeam  and  the  smile  alone  t 
Oh,  yet  forgive  !— be  all  my  guilt  forgot. 
Nor  bid  me  leave  thee  to  so  rude  a  lot  t" 

"  That  lot  is  fix'd  ;  'twere  fruitless  to  repine, 
Still  must  a  gulf  divide  my  fate  from  thine. 
I  may  forgive— but  not  at  will  the  heart 
Can  bid  its  dark  remembrances  depart. 
No,  Hamet,  no! — too  deeply  these  are  traced, 
Yet  the  hour  comes  when  all  shall  be  effaced  t 
Not  long  on  earth,  not  long,  shall  Zayda  keep 
Her  lonely  vigils  o'er  the  grave  to  weep: 
E'en  now  prophetic  of  my  early  doom. 
Speaks  to  my  soul  a  presage  of  the  tomb; 
And  ne'er  in  vain  did  hopeless  mourner  feel 
That  deep  foreboding  o'er  the  bosom  steal  I 
Soon  shall  I  slumber  calmly  by  the  side 
Of  him  for  whom  I  lived  and  would  have  died : 
Till  then,  one  thought  shall  soothe  my  orphan  lol 
In  pain  and  peril — I  forsook  him  not. 

"And  now,  farewell ! — behold  the  summer-day 
Is  passing,  like  the  dreams  of  life,  away. 
Soon  will  the  tribe  of  him  who  sleeps  draw  nigh, 
With  the  last  rites  his  bier  to  sanctify. 
Oh,  yet  in  time,  away! — 'twere  not  my  prayer 
Could  move  their  hearts  a  foe  like  thee  to  spare! 
This  hour  they  come— and  dost  thou  scorn  to  fly  1 
Save  me  that  one  last  pang — to  see  thee  die!" 

E'en  while  she  speaks  is  heard  their  echoing 

tread ; 

Onward  they  move,  the  kindred  of  the  dead. 
They  reach  the  cave — they  enter — slow  their  pare. 
And  calm,  deep  sadness  marks  each  mourner's  fate, 
And  all  is  hush'd — till  he  who  seems  to  wait 
In  silent,  stern  devotednc-ss,  his  fate. 
Hath  met  their  glance — then  grief  to  fury  turns 
Each  mien  is  changed,  each  eye  indignant  burns 
And  voices  rise,  and  swords  have  left  their  sheath- 
Blood  must  atone  for  blood,  and  death  for  death ! 
They  close  around  him : — lofty  still  his  mien. 
His  cheek  unalter'd,  and  his  brow  serene. 
Unheard,  or  heard  in  vain,  is  Zayda's  cry ; 
Fruitless  her  prayer  unmark'd  her  agony. 
But  as  his  foremost  foes  their  weapons  bend 
Against  the  life  he  seeks  not  to  defend, 
Wildly  she  darts  between — each  feeling  pas 
Save  strong  affection,  which  prevails  at  last 
Oh!  not  in  vain  its  daring — for  the  blow 
Aim'd  at  his  heart  hath  bade  her  life-blood  t> 
And  she  hath  sunk  a  martyr  on  the  breast, 
Where,  in  that  hour,  her  head  may  calmlv  n  t 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  he  is  saved:— behold  the  Zegri  band, 
Pale  with  dismay  and  grief,  around  her  stand; 
While,  every  thought  of  hate  and  vengeance  o'er. 
They  weep  for  her  who  soon  shall  weep  no  more. 
She,  she  alone  is  calm:— a  fading  smile, 
Like  sunset,  passes  o'er  her  cheek  the  while; 
And  in  her  eye,  ere  yet  it  closes,  dwell 
Those  last  faint  rays,  the  parting  soul's  farewell. 

"  Now  is  the  conflict  past,  and  I  have  proved 
How  well,  how  deeply  thou  hast  been  beloved  I 
Yes!  in  an  hour  like  this 'twere  vain  to  hide 
The  heart  so  long  and  so  severely  tried  : 
Still  to  thy  name  that  heart  hath  fondly  thrill'd, 
But  sterner  duties  call'd— and  were  fulfill'd: 
And  I  am  blest !— To  every  holier  tie 
My  life  was  faithful,— and  for  thee  I  die  1 
Nor  shall  the  love  so  purified  be  vain  ; 
Sever'd  on  earth,  we  yet  shall  meet  again. 
Farewell !— And  ye,  at  Zayda's  dying  prayer, 
Spare  him,  my  kindred  tribe  1  forgive  and  spare! 
Oh  !  be  his  guilt  forgotten  in  his  woes, 
While  I,  beside  my  sire,  in  peace  repose." 

Now  fades  her  cheek,  her  voice  hath  sunk,  and 

death 

Sits  in  her  eye,  and  struggles  in  her  breath. 
One  pang— 'tis  past— her  task  on  earth  is  done, 
And  the  pure  spirit  to  its  rest  hath  flown 
But  he  for  whom  she  died— Oh  1  who  may  paint 
The  grief,  to  which  all  other  woes  were  faint  ? 
There  is  no  power  in  language  to  impart 
The  deeper  pangs,  th'  ordeals  of  the  heart, 
By  the  dread  Searcher  of  the  soul  survey'd  ; 
These  have  no  words— nor  are  by  words  portray'd. 

A  dirge  is  rising  on  the  mountain-air, 
Whose  fitful  swells  its  plaintive  murmurs  bear 
Far  o'er  the  Alpuxarras  ; — wild  its  tone, 
And  rocks  and  caverns  echo  "Thou  art  gone!" 

"  Daughter  of  heroes  !  thou  art  gone 

To  share  his  tomb  who  gave  thee  birth; 
Peace  to  the  lovely  spirit  flown  1 

It  was  not  form'd  for  earth. 
Thou  wert  a  sunbeam  in  thy  race, 
Which  brightly  past,  and  left  no  trace. 

"  But  calmly  sleep !— for  thou  art  free, 

And  hands  unchain'd  thy  tomb  shall  raise. 

Sleep !  they  are  closed  at  length  for  thee, 
Life's  few  and  evil  days! 

Nor  shall  thou  watch,  with  tearful  eye, 

The  lingering  death  of  liberty. 

"  Flower  of  the  desert !  thou  thy  bloom 

Didst  early  to  the  storm  resign  : 
We  bear  it  still — and  dark  their  doom 

Who  cannot  weep  for  thine  I 
For  us,  whose  every  hope  is  fled. 
The  time  is  past  to  mourn  the  dead. 

"The  days  have  been,  when  o'er  thy  bier 

Far  other  strains  than  these  had  flow'd  ; 
Now,  as  a  home  from  grief  and  fear, 

We  hail  thy  dark  abode  I 
We  who  but  linger  to  bequeath 
Our  sons  the  choice  of  chains  or  death. 

"  Thou  art  with  those,  the  free,  the  brave, 

The  mighty  of  departed  years; 
And  for  the  slumberers  of  the  grave 

Our  fate  hath  left  no  tears. 
Though  loved  and  lost,  to  weep  were  vain 
For  thee,  who  ne'er  shaft  weep  again. 

"  Have  we  not  seen,  despoil'd  by  foes, 

The  land  our  fathers  won  of  yore? 
And  is  there  yet  a  pang  for  those 

Who  gaze  on  this  no  more  ? 
Oh,  that  like  them  'twere  ours  to  rest  I 
Daughter  of  heroes  !  thou  art  blest!" 

A  few  short  years,  and  in  the  lone.y  cave 
Where  sleeps  the  Zegri  maid,  is  Hairnet's  grave. 
Bever'd  in  life,  united  in  the  tomb — 
Buch  of  the  hearts  that  loved  BO  well,  the  doom  1 


Their  dirge,  of  woods  and  waves  th  eternal  moan 
Their  sepulchre,  the  pine-clad  rocks  alone. 
And  oft  beside  the  midnight  watch-fire's  blaze, 
Amidst  those  rocks,  in  long  departed  days 
(When  Freedom  fled,  to  hold,  sequester'd  there. 
The  stern  and  lofty  councils  of  despair), 
Some  exiled  Moor,  a  warrior  of  the  wild, 
Who  the  lone  hours  with  mournful  strains  beguiled, 
Hath  taught  his  mountain-home  the  tale  of  tho«« 
Who  thus  have  BufTer'd,  and  who  thus  repose. 

NOTES. 


NOTB   1. 

Not  the  light  uunbra. 
Zambra,  >  Mooruh  dance. 

NOTES. 

Within  tht  hall  of  Liora, 

The  nail  of  Lions  was  the  principal  one  ol  the  Albambra,  an*! 
was  90  called  from  twelve  sculptured  lions,  which  supported  aa 
alabaster  basin  in  the  centre. 

NOTB  3. 

Hit  Abm-Zurrahi  there  young  Hamet  leadi. 
Aben-Zurrahs ;  the  name  thui  written  is  taken  from  the  tranala- 
tionof  an  Arabic  MS.  given  in  the  3d  volume  of  Bourgoanne's  Tra- 
vels through  Spain. 

NOTE  4. 
The  Pega't  green  expann 


actic 


NOTE  5. 
Seen  'midst  tht  rednen  of  the  desert  ttorm. 


NOTB  6. 

Ktillneu  like  that,  when  fierce  the  Kamtm't  Wait 
Hath  o'er  the  dwelling!  of  the  deiert  fatted. 
Of  the  Kamsin,  a  hot  south  wind,  common  in  Egypt,  we  have  th« 
following  account  in  Volney's  Travels :  "These  winds  are  knows 
in  Egypt  by  the  general  name  of  the  winds  of  fifty  days,  because 
they  prevail  more  frequently  in  the  fifty  days  precedmgand  follow- 
ing the  equinox.  They  are  mentioned  by  travellers  under  the  name 
of  the  poisonous  winds,  or  hot  winds  of  the  desert :  their  heat  is  so 
excessive,  that  it  is  difficult  to  form  any  idea  of  its  violence  without 
having  experienced  it.  When  they  begin  to  blow,  the  sky,  at  other 
times  so  clear  in  this  climate,  becomes  dark  and  heavy ;  the  sun  loses 
his  splendour,  and  appears  of  a  violet  colour ;  the  air  is  not  cloudy, 
but  gray  and  thick,  and  is  filled  with  a  subtile  dust,  which  penetrates 
everywhere :  respiration  becomes  short  and  difficult,  the  skin  parched 
and  dry,  tb>  lungs  are  contracted  and  painful,  and  the  body  consumed 
with  internal  heat.  In  vain  is  coolness  sought  for;  marble,  irou, 
water,  though  the  sun  no  longer  appears,  are  hot :  the  streets  are  de- 
serted, and  a  dead  silence  appears  everywhere.  The  natives  of  town 
and  villages  shut  themselves  up  m  their  houses,  and  those  of  the 
desert  in  tents,  or  holes  dug  in  the  earth,  wliere  they  wait  the  termi 
nation  of  this  heat,  which  generally  lasts  three  days.  Woe  to  th* 
traveller  whom  it  surprises  remote  from  shelter:  be  must  suSei  all 
iti  dreadful  effects,  which  are  sometimes  mortal." 

NOTE  7. 

tPhtle  ttarltu  eyti  enjoy  the  honey-dnet  oftltrp. 
"  Enjoy  the  honey-heavy-dew  of  slumber."— Shakiptan. 

NOTK  8. 

On  the  green  Vc&a  won  in  tmgU  fight. 

Garcilaso  de  la  Vega  derived  his  surname  from  a  singls)  coDibat 
(in  which  he  was  the  victor)  with  a  Moor,  on  the  Vega  of  Granada. 

NOTB  9. 

Who  drank  for  man  the  bitter  cup  of  tear/. 
"  El  Rev  D.  Fenundo  bolvio  a  la  Vega,  y  puso  su  Real  a  la  vista 
de  Hueca. ,  A  veyui«  /  seys  dias  del  mes  de  Abril,  adoude  fue  fort  i 
ficado  de  todo  lo  necessario  ;  poniendo  el  Christiano  todi  su  Rente  en 
esquadron,  con  todas  sus  vanderas  tendidas.  y  su  Real  Eitandarte,  el 
qual  llevava  nor  d>n-a  un  Cbristo  crucifieado."—  Hutoria  it  la 
Querraf  Civile*  de  Granada. 

NOTK   10. 

from  yon  rich  province  of  the  western  itar. 
Andalusia  signifies,  in  Arabic,  tht  region  of  the  evening  or  of  tht 

wtst ;  in  a  word,  the  Haperia  of  the  Greeks See  Corn   Bibiiot 

Jtrabico-Hapana,  and  Gibbon'i  Decline  and  Fall,  » 

NOTE  11. 

The  mma-white  charger,  and  the  attire  en*. 
"  Los  Abencerrages  salieron  con  su  acostumbrada  libra  azul  y 
blanca,  todos  llenos  de  ricos  texidos  de  plata.  las  plnmas  de  la  misma 
color:  an  sus  adargas,  su  acostumbrada  divisa,  salvages  que  des> 
quixalavan  leones,  y  otrps  no  mundo  que  lo  deehazia  un  selvage  coo 
un  baston."—  Guerrat  Cifilu  de  Granada. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


NOTE  12. 

Th' eternal  mow  that  croumt  Veliia's  head. 

I  those  called  Malba- 

NOTE  13. 

The  wounded  lottght  a  sheltrr~-and  expired. 
It  if  known  to  be  a  frequent  circumstance  in  battle,  that  the  dyfnf 
•Dd  the  wounded  drag  themselves,  as  it  were  mechanically,  to  tbc 
•belter  afforded  by  any  bush  or  Tucket  on  the  field. 

NOTE  14. 

Severely  leauttout. 
*  Severe  in  youthful  beauty."— Milton. 

NOTE  15. 

While  streams,  that  bear  thee  treasure]  m  their  wave, 
Granada  stands  upon  two  hills,  separated  by  the  Darro.  The  Genii 
runs  under  the  walls.  The  Darro  is  said  to  carry  with  its  stream 
.mall  particles  of  gold,  and  the  Genii,  of  silver.  When  Charles  V. 
came  to  Granada  with  the  Empress  Isabella,  the  city  presented  him 
with  a  crown,  made  of  gold  which  had  been  collected  from  the 
Darro. — See  Bowgoaune's  and  other  Travel*. 

NOTE  16. 

The  hcarti  of  warriors  echo  to  itt  call. 

•'At  this  period,  while  the  inhabitants  of  Granada  were  sunk  in 
indolence,  one  of  those  men,  whose  natural  and  impassioned  elo- 
quence has  sometimes  aroused  a  people  to  deeds  of  heroism,  raised 
his  voice,  in  the  midst  of  the  city,  and  awakened  the  inhabitants 
from  their  lethargy.  Twenty  thousand  enthusiasts,  ranged  under 
his  banners,  were  prepared  to  sally  forth,  with  the  fury  of  despera* 
tion,  to  attack  the  besiegers,  when  Abo  Abdeli,  more  afraid  of  his 
subjects  than  of  the  eneni;-.  resolved  immediately  to  capitulate,  and 
made  terms  with  the  Chris>ians,  by  which  it  was  agreed  that  the 
Moon  should  be  allowed  the  free  exercise  of  their  religion  and  laws : 
shnuld  be  permitted,  if  they  thought  proper,  to  depart  unmolested 
with  their  eflecls  to  Africa  ;  and  that  he  himself,  if  he  remained  in 
Spain,  should  retain  an  extensive  estate,  with  houses  and  slaves,  or 
be  granted  an  equivalent  in  money  if  he  preferred  retiring  to  liar- 
bary."— See  Jacob1!  Travel*  in  Spain. 

NOTE  17. 

Jzarquet,  Zegris,  Mmoradis,  hear! 

Azarques,  Zegris,  Almoradis,  different  tribes  of  the  Moon  of 
Grauada,  all  of  high  distinction. 

NOTE  18. 

Dyed  with  no  blood  but  that  of  hostile  lands. 
The  conquest  of  Granada  was  greatly  facilitated  by  the  civil  dis- 
tensions which,  at  this  period,  prevailed  in  the  city.  Several  of  the 
Moorish  tribes,  influenced  by  private  feuds,  were  fully  prepared  for 
tubmission  to  the  Spaniards ;  others  had  embraced  the  cause  of  Mu- 
l<  v  el  Zaftal,  the  uncle  and  competitor  for  the  throne  of  Abdallah  (or 
Abo  Abdeli),  and  all  was  jealousy  and  animosity. 

NOTE  19 

What  TariKt  bands  o'eripnad  the  western  short, 
Tarik,  the  first  lea  ler  of  the  Arabs  and  Moors  into  Spain  — "Th« 
Ksracens  landed  a!  the  pillar  or  point  of  Europe :  the  corrupt  and 
familiar  apoellation  of  Gibraltar  (Rebel  al  Tarik)  describes  the 
mountain  of  Tarik,  and  the  intrenchments  of  his  camp  were  the  first 
outline  of  those  fortifications,  which,  in  the  hands  of  our  countrymen, 
have  resisted  the  art  and  power  of  the  House  of  Bourbon.  The  adja 
cent  governors  informed  the  court  of  Toledo  of  the  descent  and  pro- 
gross  of  the  Arabs ;  and  the  defeat  of  his  lieutenant.  Edeco,  who  had 
been  commanded  to  seize  and  bind  the  presumptuous  strangers,  first 
admonished  Roderic  of  the  magnitude  of  the  danger.  At  the  royal 
summons,  the  dukes  and  counts,  the  bishops  and  nobles  of  the  Gothic 
monarchy,  assembled  at  the  head  of  their  followers ;  and  the  title  of 
k  ng  of  the  Romans,  which  is  employed  by  an  Arabic  historian,  may 
bf  excused  by  the  close  affinity  of  language,  religion,  and  manners 
between  the  nations  of  Spain."— Oibbon's  Decline  and  fall,  Hie. 
vol.  ix.  pp.  472,  473. 

NOTE  20. 

When  the  long  combat  raged  on  Seres'  plain. 
"  In  the  neighbourhood  of  Cadiz,  the  town  of  Xeres  has  been  Inns 
trated  by  the  encounter  which  determined  the  fate  of  the  kingdom  : 
the  stream  of  the  Guadalete,  which  falls  into  the  bay,  divided  the 
two  camps,  and  marked  the  advancing  and  retreating  skirmishes  of 
three  successive  days.  On  the  fourth  day,  the  two  armies  joined  a 
more  serious  and  decisive  issue."  "  Notwithstanding  the  valour  of 
the  Saracens,  they  fainted  under  the  weight  of  multitudes,  and  the 
plain  of  Xerts  was  overspread  with  sixteen  thousand  of  their  dead 
bodies. — '  My  brethren,' said  Tarik  to  his  surviving  companions, '  the 
enemy  is  before  you,  the  sea  is  behind  ;  whither  would  ye  fly  ?  Fol- 
low your  general ;  I  am  resolved  either  to  lose  my  life,  or  to  trample 
oti  the  prostrate  king  of  the  Romans.'  Besides  the  resource  of  de- 
spair, he  confided  in  the  secret  correspondence  and  nocturnal  inter, 
views  of  count  Julian  with  the  sons  and  the  brother  of  Witiza.  The 
two  princes,  and  the  archbishop  of  Toledo,  occupied  the  most  im> 
portant  post:  their  well-timed  defection  broke  the  ranks  of  the 
Christians ;  each  warrior  was  prompted  by  fear  or  suspicion  to  con- 
sult his  personal  safety;  and  the  remains  of  the  Gothic  army  were 
scattered  or  destroyed  in  the  flight  and  pursuit  of  the  three  following 
inyt."—Uibbun's  Decline  and  Fall,  &c.  vol.  ix.  pp.  473,  474. 

NOTE  21. 

And  Afnc's  teebir  swelled  through  yielding  Spain. 
The  tetbir,  the  shout  of  onset  used  by  the  Saracens  in  battle. 


I  NOTE  22. 

Tour  Ung  hath  yielded  I  Valour's  dream  a  o'er. 
The  terrors  occasioned  by  this  sudden  excitement  of  popular  feel, 
ing  seem  even  to  have  accelerated  Abo  Abdeli  s  capitulation.  "  Ater- 
rado  Abo  Abdeli  con  el  alborolo,  y  temiendo  no  ser  ya  el  Dueno  de 
un  pueblo  amotinado,  se  apresuro  a  concluir  una  capitulacion,  la 
menos  dura  que  podia  obtener  en  tan  urgentes  circunstancias,  y  ofr» 
cio  enlregar  a  Granada  el  dia  seis  de  Enero."— Paseos  en  GranuUt- 
vol.  i.  p.  208. 

NOTE  23. 

Ye,  that  around  the  oaken  cross  of  yore. 
aba  oaken  cross,  carried  by  Falagius  in  battle. 

NOTE  24. 

Jnd  thou,  tht  warrior,  born  in  happy  hour. 
See  Scuthey's  Chronicle  of  the  Cid,  in  which  that  warrior  is  fro 
•jbently  styled,  "  he  who  was  born  in  happy  hour.'" 

NOTE  25. 

fen  m  the  realm  of  spirits  didst  retain 
A  patriots  vigilance,  remembering  Spain  / 
"Moreover,  when  the  Miramamolin  brought  over  from  Africa, 
against  King  Don  Alfonso,  the  eighth  of  that  name,  the  mightiest 
power  of  the  misbelievers  that  had  ever  been  brought  against  bpain, 
since  the  destruction  of  the  kings  of  the  Goths,  the  Cid  Campeador 
remembered  his  country  in  that  great  danger ;  for  the  night  brfcrt 
the  battle  was  fought  at  the  Naras  de  Tolosa,  in  the  dead  of  the 
night,  a  mighty  sound  was  heard  in  the  whole  city  of  Leon,  as  if  it 
were  the  tramp  of  a  great  army  passing  through ;  and  it  passed  on 
to  the  royal  monastery  of  St.  Isidro,  and  there  was  a  great  knocking 
at  the  gate  thereof,  and  they  called  to  a  priest  who  was  keeping  vigi  Is 
in  the  church,  and  told  him,  that  the  captains  of  the  army  whom  he 
heard  were  the  Cid  Ruydiez,  and  Count  Ferran  Gonzalez,  and  that 
they  cauie  there  to  call  up  King  Don  Ferrando  the  Great,  who  lay 
buried  in  that  church,  that  he  might  go  with  them  to  deliver  Spain. 
And  on  the  morrow  that  great  battle  of  the  Navas  de  Toloea  was 
fought,  wherein  sixty  thousand  of  the  misbelieve™  were  slain,  which 
was  one  of  the  greatest  and  noblest  battles  ever  won  over  the  Moors." 
— SouMey'i  Chronicle  of  the  Cid. 

NOTE  26. 
O  realm  of  evening : 

The  name  of  Andalusia,  the  region  of  evening  or  of  the  west,  was 
applied  by  the  Arabs,  not  only  to  the  province  so  called,  but  to  the 
whole  peninsula. 

NOTE  27. 

What  banner  streams  afar  from  fela't  tower  T 
"  En  este  dia,  para  siempre  memorable,  los  estandartes  ne  la  Cn.i. 
de  St  lago.  y  el  de  los  Reyes  de  Castilla  se  tremolaron  sobre  la  torn 
mas  alia,  llamada  de  la  Vtla. ;  y  un  exercito  prosternado,  inundan- 
dose  en  lagrirnas  de  gozo  y  reconocimiento,  asistio  al  mas  glories* 
de  los  espectaculos."— Paseos  en  Granada,  vol.  i.  p.  299. 

NOTE  28. 

They  reach  those  towers— irregularly  vast 
Jnarude  they  seem,  in  mould  barbaric  cast. 

Swinburne,  after  describing  the  noble  palace  built  by  Charles  T 
in  the  precincts  of  the  Alhambra,  thus  proceeds  :  ••  Adjoining  (to  ih, 
noith)  stands  a  huge  heap  of  as  ugly  buildings  as  can  well  be  seen, 
all  huddled  together,  seemingly  without  the  least  intention  of  forming 
one  habitation  out  of  them.  The  walls  are  entirely  unornamented, 
all  gravel  and  pebbles,  daubed  over  with  plaster  by  a  very  coarse 
hand  :  yet  this  is  the  palace  of  the  Moorish  kings  of  Granada,  indis- 
putably the  most  curious  place  within  that  exists  in  Spain,  perhaps 
:o  Europe.  In  many  countries  you  may  see  excellent  modern  tm 
well  as  ancient  architecture,  both  entire  and  in  ruins;  but  nothing 
to  be  met  with  anywhere  else  can  convey  an  idea  of  this  edifice,  ex- 
cept you  take  it  from  the  decorations  of  an  opera,  or  the  tale*  of  the 
genii."— Swinburne's  Travels  through  Spain. 

NOTE  29. 

A  genii  palace — an  Arabian  heaven. 

'  Passing  round  the  corner  of  the  emperor's  palace,  you  are  ad- 
mitted at  a  plain  unornamented  door,  in  a  corner.  On  my  first  visit, 
I  confess,  I  was  struck  with  amazement  as  I  slept  over  the  threshold, 
to  find  myself  on  a  sudden  transported  into  a  species  of  fairy  land. 
The  first  place  you  come  to  is  the  court  called  the  Communa,  or  dtl 
Mesucar,  that  is,  the  common  baths :  an  oblong  square,  with  a  deep 
bason  of  clear  water  in  the  middle  ;  two  flights  of  marble  steps  lead- 
ing down  to  the  bottom  ;  on  each  side  a  parterre  of  flowers,  and  a 
row  of  orange-trees.  Round  the  court  runs  a  peristyle  paved  with 
marble ;  the  arches  bear  upon  very  slight  pillars,  in  proportions  and 
'style  different  from  all  the  regular  orders  of  architecture.  The  ceil- 
ings and  walls  are  incrustated  with  fretwork  in  stucco,  so  minute  and 
intricate,  that  the  most  patient  draughtsman  would  find  it  difficult  to 
follow  it,  unless  he  made  himself  master  of  the  general  plan." — 
Swinburne's  Travels  in  Spain. 

NOTE  30. 

Borders  the  walls  in  characters  of  gold 

The  walls  and  cornices  of  the  Alhambra  are  covered  with  inscrip- 
tions in  Arabic  characters.  "  In  examining  this  abode  of  magnifi- 
cence," says  Bourgoanne,  "  the  observer  is  every  moment  astonished 
at  the  new  and  interesting  mixture  of  architecture  and  poclry.  To* 
palace  of  the  Alhambra  may  be  called  a  collection  of  fugitive  pieces ; 
and  whatever  duration  these  may  have,  time,  with  which  everything 
passes  away,  has  too  mudi  contributed  to  confirm  to  them  that  title." 
—See  Bourgoannt's  Travels  in  Spain. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


NOTE  31. 

TamlKinr,  and  flute,  and  atabal,  an  Oun. 
Atabal,  a  kind  of  Moorish  drum. 

NOTE  32. 

Gra-nada  !  for  Castile  and  Arragon  t 

*  T  ansi  entraron  en  la  ciudad,  y  subieron  al  Alhambra,  y  ncima 
t»  la  torre  de  Comaros  tan  famosa  se  levantn  la  senal  de  la  Snnta 
Criz,  y  lueiro  el  real  estandarte  de  los  dos  Christianas  reyes.  Y  a1 
punto  los  reyes  de  armas,  a  grandes  bozes  dizieron,  'Uranada  !  Gra 
•ada!  por  su  magestad,  y  por  la  reyna  su  muger.'  La  serenissima 
reyna  I).  Isabel  que  vio  la  senal  de  la  Santa  Cruz  sobre  la  hermosa 
torre  de  Comares,  y  el  su  estandarte  real  con  ella,  se  hinro  de  R<>- 
dillas,  y  dio  infinitas  gracias  a  L)ios  por  la  victoria  que  le  av.a  dado 
contra  aquella  gran  ciudad.  La  musica  real  de  la  capilla  del  rey 
lueco  a  canto  de  organo  canto  Te  Deum  laudamus.  Fue  tan  grande 
el  plazer  que  todos  lloravan.  Luego  del  Alhambra  sonaron  mil  in- 
strunientos  de  musica  de  bellcas  trompetas.  Los  Moros  amigos  del 
rey,  que  querian  ser  Christianos,  cuya  cabeza  era  el  valeroso  Muca, 
tomaron  mil  dulzaynas  y  anafiles,  sonando  grande  ruydo  de  atambores 
por  toda  la  ciudad." — Hittoria  de  lot  Guerrat  Cinder  de  Granada. 

NOTE  33. 

The  fatal  lampi  innumerably  Ware. 

"  Los  cavalleros  Moros  que  avemos  dicho,  aquella  noche  jugaron 
galanamente  alcancias  y  canas.  Andava  Granada  aquella  noche  con 
tanla  alegria,  y  con  tantas  luminarias,  que  parecia  que  se  ardia  la 
tierra  " — Hittoria  de  lot  Guerras  Civile*  de  Granada. 

Swinburne,  in  his  Travels  through  Spain,  in  the  years  1775  and 
1776.  mentions  that  the  anniversary  of  the  surrender  of  Granada  to 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella  was  still  observed  in  the  city  as  a  great  fes- 
tival and  day  of  rejoicing;  and  that  the  populace  on  that  occasion 
paid  an  annual  visit  to  the  Moorish  palace. 

NOTE  34. 

To  A  frit's  teildt  the  royal  exile  flia. 

"  tot  Gomelea  todos  se  passaron  en  Africa,  y  el  Rey  Chlco  con 
ellos,  que  no  quiso  ettar  en  Espana,  y  en  Africi  le  mataron  lo  Moros 
de  aquellu  paries,  porque  perdio  a  Granada." — Outrrat  Cradst  sh 
Uranada. 


NOTE  35. 

Of  kirn  tofc)  knew  not,  at  a  man,  to  die, 

Abo  Abdeli,  upon  leaving  Granada,  after  its  conquest  by  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella,  stopped  on  the  hill  of  Padul  to  take  a  last  look  of  his 
city  and  palace.  Overcome  by  the  sight,  he  burst  into  tears,  and  was 
thus  reproached  by  his  mother,  the  Sultaness  Ayia :  "Thou  dost 
well  to  weep,  like  a  woman,  over  the  loss  of  that  kingdom  which 
thou  knewest  not  how  to  defend  and  die  for  like  a  man." 


Orv 

Abencerrage».M—  Quemst 


NOTE  36. 

Th'  avengir't  task  it  doted. 
"  El  rey  mando,  que  si  quedavan  Zegris,  Q,u< 
nada,  por  la  maldad  que  hizieron  c 
Civila  de  Granada. 

NOTE  37. 

'AfiM  the  wild  Ah'uxarrnt. 

"  The  Alpunrras  are  so  lofty  that  the  coast  of  Rarbary,  and  ths) 
cities  of  Tangier  and  Ceuta,  are  discovered  from  their  summits ;  they 
are  about  seventeen  leagues  in  length,  from  Veles  Malaga  to  Almeria, 
and  eleven  in  breadth,  and  abound  with  fruit-trees  of  great  beauty 
and  prodigious  size.  In  these  mountains  the  wretched  remains  of  In* 
Moon  took  refuge."— Baurgoanne't  Traveli  in  Spain. 

NOTE  38. 

Wen  but  too  blat  if  aught  remained  le  fear. 
"  Pint  a  Dieu  que  je  eraigniae  "—Andromaqut, 

NOTE  39. 

Rival  the  tinti  that  float  o'er  rammer  Oun. 
Mrs.  Radcliffe,  in  her  journey  along  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  thin 
-fesrrihes  the  colours  of  the  granite  rocks  in  the  mountains  of  the 
lu'fstrasse.  "The  nearer  we  approached  these  mountains,  the  mor« 
*r.  bad  occasion  lo  admire  the  various  tints  of  their  granites.  Some- 
S~et  the  precipices  were  of  a  faint  pink,  then  of  a  deep  red,  a  dull 
purple,  or  a  blush  approaching  to  lilac,  and  sometimes  gleams  of  a 
pale  yellow  mingled  with  the  low  shrubs  that  grew  upon  their  sides. 
The  day  was  cloudless  and  bright,  and  we  were  top  near  them 
heights  to  be  deceived  by  the  illusions  of  aerial  colouring  ;  the  real 
of  their  feature!  were  as  beautiful,  mi  their  magnitude  WM 


TH1 


WIDOW   OF  CEESCENTIUS. 


'  L'orage  pent  brtaer  en  nn  moment  lea  flenra  qni  tiennent  encore  la  tete  leTee."— Mad.  <h  StatL 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


"  In  the  reign  of  Otho  III.,  Emperor  of  Germany,  the  Roman*,  excited  by  their  Consul,  Crescen- 
tins,  who  ardently  desired  to  restore  the  ancient  glory  of  the  republic,  made  a  hold  attempt  to  shake 
Off  the  Saxon  yoke,  and  the  authority  of  the  Popes,  whose  vices  rendered  them  objects  of  universal 
contempt.  The  Consul  was  besieged  by  Otho  in  the  Mole  of  Hadrian,  which,  long  afterward,  con 
tinned  to  he  called  the  Tower  of  Crescentins.  Otho,  after  many  unavailing  attacks  upon  this 
fortress,  at  last  entered  into  negotiations ;  and  pledging  his  imperial  word  to  respect  the  life  of 
Crescentius,  and  the  rights  of  the  Roman  citizens,  the  nufortnnate  leader  was  betrayed  into  his 
power,  and  immediately  beheaded,  with  many  of  his  partisans.  Stephana,  his  widow,  concealing 
her  affliction  and  her  resentment  for  the  insults  to  which  she  had  been  exposed,  secretly  resolved  to 
revenge  her  husband  and  herself.  On  the  return  of  Otho  from  a  pilgrimage  to  Mount  Oarganna, 
which  perhaps  a  feeling  of  remorse  had  induced  him  to  undertake,  she  found  means  to  be  introduced 
to  him,  and  to  gain  his  confidence  ;  and  a  poison  administered  by  her  was  soon  afterward  the  cause 
ef  his  painful  death."— See  Sitmondi  History  of  the  JtalUm  Republics,  vol.  1. 


THE 


WIDOW  OF   CRESCENTIUS. 


PART  I. 

MIDST  Tivoli's  luxuriant  glade*, 
Bright-foaming  falls,  and  olive  shades, 
Where  dwell,  in  days  departed  long, 
The  sons  of  battle  and  of  song, 
No  tree,  no  shrub  its  foliage  rears, 
But  o'er  the  wrecks  of  other  years, 
Temples  and  domes,  which  long  have  been 
The  soil  of  that  enchanted  scene. 

There  the  wild  fig-tree  and  the  vine 
O'er  Hadrian's  mouldering  villa  twine; (11 
The  cypress,  in  funereal  grace, 
Usurps  the  varnish'd  column's  place; 
O'er  fallen  shrine,  and  ruin'd  frieze, 
The  wall-flower  rustles  in  the  breeze; 
Acanthus-leaves  the  marble  hide, 
They  once  adorn'd  in  sculptured  pride  ; 
And'  nature  hath  resumed  her  throne 
O'er  the  vast  works  of  ages  flown. 

Was  it  for  this  that  many  a  pile 
Pride  of  Ilissus  and  of  Nile. 
To  Anio's  banks  the  image  lent 
Of  each  imperial  monument  ?(2) 
Now  Athens  weeps  her  shatter'd  fanes. 
Thy  temples,  Egypt,  strew  thy  plains  ; 
And  the  proud  fabrics  Hadrian  rear'd 
From  Tiber's  vale  have  disappear'd. 
We  need  no  prescient  sibyl  there, 
The  doom  of  grandeur  to  declare, 
Each  stone,  where  weeds  and  ivy  climb, 
Reveals  some  oracle  of  Time  : 
Fach  relic  utters  Fate's  decree. 
The  future  as  the  past  shall  he. 

Halls  of  the  dead  I  in  Tiber's  vale. 
Who  now  shall  tell  your  lofty  tale? 
Who  trace  the  high  patrician's  dome, 
The  bard's  retreat,  Ihe  hero's  home  ? 
When  moss-clad  wrecks  alone  record, 
There  dwelt  the  world's  departed  lord! 
in  scenes  where  verdure's  rich  array 
Still  sheds  young  betnty  o'er  decay. 
And  sunshine,  on  ei.ch  glowing  hill, 
'Midst  ruins  finds  a  Jwelling  still. 

Sunk  is  thy  palace,  hut  thy  tomb, 
lludrian  I  hath  shaied  a  prouder  doom,  (3) 
Though  vanisli'd  with  the  days  of  old 
Its  pillars  of  Corinthian  mould  ; 
And  the  fair  forms  by  sculpture  wrought, 
Each  bodying  some  immortal  thought, 
Which  o'er  that  temple  of  the  dead. 
Serene,  but  solemn  beauty  shed, 
Have  found,  like  glory's  self,  a  grave 
In  time's  abyss  or  Tiber's  wave: (4) 
Yet  dreams  more  lofty,  and  more  fair, 
Than  art's  bold  hand  hath  imaged  e'er, 
High  thoughts  of  many  a  mighty  mind, 
Expanding  when  all  else  declined, 


In  twilight  years,  when  only  they 
Recall'd  the  radiance  pass'd  away, 
Have  made  that  ancient  pile  their  home, 
Fortress  of  freedom  and  of  Rome. 

There  he,  who  strove  in  evil  days, 
Again  to  kindle  glory's  rays, 
Whose  spirit  sought  a  path  of  light. 
For  those  dim  ages  far  too  bright, 
Crescentius  long  maintain'd  the  strife. 
Which  closed  but  with  its  martyr's  life. 
And  left  the  imperial  tomb  a  name. 
A  heritage  of  holier  fame. 
There  closed  De  Brescia's  mission  high, 
From  thence  the  patriot  came  to  die; (5) 
And  thou,  whose  Roman  soul  the  last. 
Spoke  with  the  voice  of  ages  p&st,  (6) 
Who»e  thoughts  so  long  from  earth  had  fled. 
To  mingle  with  the  glorious  dead. 
That  'midst  the  world's  degenerate  race, 
They  vainly  sought  a  dwelling-place, 
Within  that  house  of  death  didst  brood 
O'er  visions  to  thy  ruin  woo'd. 
Yet  worthy  of  a  brighter  lot, 
Rienza  !  be  thy  faults  forgot! 
For  thou,  when  all  around  thee  lay 
Chain'd  in  the  slumbers  of  decay; 
So  sunk  each  heart,  that  mortal  eye 
Had  scarce  a  tear  for  liberty ; 
Alone,  amidst  the  darkness  there, 
Could'st  gaze  on  Rome — yet  not  despair!  (7) 

'Tis  morn,  and  Nature's  richest  dyes 
Are  floating  o'er  Italian  skies  ; 
Tints  of  transparent  lustre  shine 
Along  the  snow-clad  Apennine; 
The  clouds  have  left  Soracte's  height, 
And  yellow  Tiber  winds  in  light. 
Where  tombs  and  fallen  fanes  have  strew'd 
The  wild  Campaena's  solitude. 
'Tis  sad  amidst  that  scene  to  trace 
Those  relics  of  a  vanisli'd  race; 
Yet  o'er  the  ravaged  path  of  time. 
Such  glory  sheds  that  brilliant  clime. 
Where  nature  still,  though  Empires  fall, 
Holds  her  triumphant  festival ; 
E'en  desolation  wears  a  smile, 
Where  skies  and  sunbeams  laugh  the  while  ; 
Andlleaven'sown  light.  Ear  til's  richest  bloom 
Array  the  ruin  and  the  tomb. 

But  she,  who  from  yon  convent  tower 
Breathes  the  pure  freshness  of  the  hour; 
She,  whose  rich  flow  of  raven  hair 
Streams  wildly  on  the  morning  air ; 
Heeds  not  how  fair  the  scene  below, 
Robed  in  Italia's  brightest  glow, 
Though  throned 'midst  Latium's  classic  plaint 
Th'  Eternal  City's  towers  and  fanes, 
And'they,  the  Pleiades  of  earth, 
The  seven  proud  hills  of  Empire's  birth 
(41) 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Lie  spread  beneath:  not  now  her  glance 
Roves  o'er  that  vast,  sublime  expanse  ; 
Inspired,  and  bright  with  hope,  'tis  thrown 
On  Hadrian's  massy  tomb  alone ; 
There,  from  the  storm,  when  Freedom  fled, 
His  faithful  few  Crescentius  led ! 
While  she,  his  anxious  bride,  who  now 
Bends  o'er  the  scene  her  youthful  brow, 
Bought  refuge  in  the  hallow'd  fane, 
Which  then  could  shelter,  not  in  vain 
But  now  the  lofty  strife  is  o'er, 
And  Liberty  shall  weep  no  more. 
At  length  imperial  Otho's  voice 
Bids  her  devoted  sons  rejoice ; 
And  he,  who  battled  to  restore 
The  glories  and  the  rights  of  yore, 
Whose  accents,  like  the  clarion's  sound. 
Could  burst  the  dead  repose  around, 
Again  his  native  Rome  shall  see, 
The  sceptred  city  of  the  free  I 
And  young  Stephania  waits  the  hour 
When  leaves  her  lord  his  fortress-tower, 
Her  ardent  heart  with  joy  elate. 
That  seems  beyond  the  reach  of  fate  ; 
Her  mien,  like  creature  from  above, 
All  vivified  with  hope  and  love. 

Fair  is  her  form,  and  in  her  eye 
Lives  all  the  soul  of  Italy! 
A  meaning  lofty  and  inspired. 
As  by  her  native  day-star  fired : 
Such  wild  and  high  expression,  fraught 
With  glances  of  impassion'd  thought, 
As  fancy  sheds  in  visions  bright 
O'er  priestess  of  the  God  of  Light ! 
And  the  dark  locks  that  lend  her  face 
A  youthful  and  luxuriant  grace, 
Wave  o'er  her  cheek,  whose  kindling  dye* 
Seem  from  the  fire  within  to  rise ; 
But  deepen'd  by  the  burning  heaven 
To  her  own  land  of  sunbeams  given 
Italian  nrt  that  fervid  glow 
Would  o'er  ideal  beauty  throw. 
And  with  such  ardent  life  express 
Her  high- wrought  dreams  of  loveliness; — 
Dreams  which,  surviving  Empire's  fall. 
The  shade  of  glory  still  recall. 

But  see, — the  banner  of  the  brave 
O'er  Hadrian's  tomb  hath  ceased  to  wave 
'Tis  lower'd— and  now  Stephanie's  eye 
Can  well  the  martial  train  descry. 
Who,  issuing  from  that  ancient  dome, 
Pour  through  the  crowded  streets  of  Rome. 
Now  from  her  watch-tower  on  the  height, 
With  step  as  fabled  wood-nymphs  light, 
She  flies — and  swift  her  way  pursues 
Through  the  lone  convent's  avenues. 
Dark  cypress-groves,  and  fields  o'erspread 
With  records  of  the  conquering  dead, 
And  paths  which  track  a  glowing  waste, 
She  traverses  in  breathless  haste: 
And  by  the  tombs  where  dust  is  shrined, 
Once  tenanted  by  loftiest  mind. 
Still  passing  on,  hath  reach'd  the  gate 
Of  Rome,  the  proud,  the  desolate ! 
Throng'd  are  the  streets,  and  still  renew'd, 
Rush  on  the  gathering  multitude. 

Is  it  their  high-soul'd  chief  to  greet, 
That  thus  the  Roman  thousands  meet  ? 
With  names  that  bid  their  thoughts  ascend, 
Cretcentius.  thine  in  song  to  blend; 
And  of  triumphal  days  gone  by 
Recall  th'  inspiring  pageantry? 
—There  is  an  air  of  breathless  dread, 
An  eager  glance,  a  hurrying  tread: 
And  now  a  fearful  silence  round, 
And  now  a  fitful  murmuring  sound, 
Midst  the  pale  crowds,  that  almost  seem 
Phantoms  of  some  tumultuous  dream, 
yuick  is  each  step,  and  wild  each  mien, 
Portentous  of  some  awful  scene. 
Bride  of  Crescentius  !  as  the  throng 
Bore  thee  with  whelming  force  along, 


How  did  thine  anxious  heart  beat  high. 
Till  rose  suspense  to  agony! 
Too  brief  suspense,  that  soon  shall  close, 
And  leave  thy  heart  to  deeper  woes. 

Who  'midst  yon  guarded  precinct  stands, 
With  fearless  mien,  but  fetter'd  hands? 
The  ministers  of  death  are  nigh, 
Yet  a  calm  grandeur  lights  his  eye ; 
And  in  his  glance  there  lives  a  mind, 
Which  was  not  form'd  for  chains  to  bind. 
But  cast  in  such  heroic  mould 
As  theirs,  th'  ascendant  ones  of  old. 
Crescentius !  freedom's  daring  son, 
Is  this  the  guerdon  thou  hast  won  ? 
O  worthy  to  have  lived  and  died 
In  the  bright  days  of  Latium's  pride  I 
Thus  must  the  beam  of  glory  close, 
O'er  the  seven  hills  again  that  rose, 
When  at  thy  voice  to  burst  the  yoke, 
The  soul  of  Rome  indignant  woke? 
Vain  dream  !  the  sacred  shields  are  gone,  (8) 
Sunk  is  the  crowning  city's  throne  :  (9) 
Th'  illusions  that  around  her  cast 
Their  guardian  spells  have  long  been  past.  (10,' 
Thy  life  hath  been  a  shot  star's  ray, 
Shed  o'er   her  midnight  of  decay; 
Thy  death  at  freedom's  ruin'd  shrine 
Must  rivet  every  chain — but  thine. 

Calm  is  his  aspect,  and  his  eye 
Now  lix'd  upon  the  deep-blue  sky, 
Now  on  those  wrecks  of  ages  fled, 
Around  in  desolation  spread ; 
Arch,  temple,  column,  worn  and  gray, 
Recording  triumphs  pass'd  away; 
Works  of  the  mighty  and  the  free. 
Whose  steps  on  earth  no  more  shall  be, 
Though  their  bright  course  hath  left  a  trace 
Nor  years  nor  sorrows  can  efface. 

Why  chancres  now  the  patriot's  mien, 
Erewhile  so  loftily  serene? 
Thus  can  approaching  death  control 
The  might  of  that  commanding  soul? 
No!— Heard  ye  not  that  thrilling  cry 
Which  told  of  bitterest  agony  1 
He  heard  it,  and,  at  once  subdued, 
Hath  sunk  the  hero's  fortitude, 
lie  heard  it,  and  his  heart  too  well 
Whence  rose  that  voice  of  woe  can  tellj 
And  'midst  the  gazing  throngs  around 
One  well-known  form  his  glance  hath  found 
One  fondly  loving  and  beloved, 
In  grief,  in  peril,  faithful  proved. 
Yes,  in  the  wildness  of  despair, 
She,  his  devoted  bride,  is  there. 
Pale,  breathless,  through  the  crowd  she  flies 
The  light  of  frenzy  in  her  eyes: 
But  ere  her  arms  can  clasp  the  form, 
Which  life  ere  long  must  cease  to  warm; 
Ere  on  his  agonizing  breast 
Her  heart  can  heave,  her  head  can  rest; 
Check'd  in  her  course  by  ruthless  hands, 
Mute,  motionless,  at  once  she  stands ; 
With  bloodless  cheek  and  vacant  glance, 
Frozen  and  fix'd  in  horror's  trance; 
Spell-bound,  as  every  sense  were  fled. 
And  thought  o'erwhelm'd,  and  feeling  dead. 
And  the  light  waving  of  her  hair, 
And  veil,  far  floating  on  the  air. 
Alone,  in  that  dread  moment,  show, 
She  is  no  sculptured  form  of  woe. 

The  scene  of  grief  and  death  is  o'er, 
The  patriot's  heart  shall  throb  no  more* 
But  hers — so  vainly  form'd  to  prove 
The  pure  devotedness  of  love, 
And  draw  from  fond  affection's  eye 
All  thought  sublime,  all  feeling  high  ; 
When  consciousness  again  shall  wake. 
Hath  now  no  refuge — but  to  break. 
The  spirit  long  inured  to  pain 
May  smile  at  fate  in  calm  disdain; 
Survive  its  darkest  hour,  and  rise 
In  more  majestic  energies. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  in  the  glow  of  vernal  pride, 
If  each  warm  hope  at  once  hath  died, 
Then  sinks  the  mind,  a  blighted  flower, 
Dead  to  the  sunbeam  and  the  shower ; 
A  broken  gem,  whose  inborn  light 
IB  scatter'd— ne'er  to  reunite. 


PART  H. 

HAST  thou  a  scene  that  is  not  spread 
With  records  of  thy  glory  fled  1 
A  monument  that  doth  not  tell 
The  tale  of  libeity's  farewell? 
Italia!  thou  art  but  a  grave 
Where  flowers  luxuriate  o'er  the  brave, 
And  Nature  gives  her  treasures  birth 
O'er  all  that  hath  been  great  on  earth. 
Yet  smile  thy  heavens  as  once  they  smiled, 
When  thou  wert  Freedom's  favour'd  child: 
Though  fane  and  tomb  alike  are  low, 
Time  hath  not  dimm'd  thy  sunbeam's  glow 
And  robed  in  that  exulting  ray, 
Thou  seem'st  to  triumph  o'er  decay ; 
O  yet,  though  by  thy  sorrows  bent, 
In  nature's  pomp  magnificent; 
What  marvel  if,  when  all  was  lost, 
Still  on  thy  bright  enchanted  coast, 
Though  many  an  omen  warn'd  him  thence, 
Linger'd  the  lord  of  eloquence  I  (11) 
Still  gazing  on  the  lovely  sky. 
Whose  radiance  woo'd  him— but  to  die: 
Like  him,  who  would  not  linger  there. 
Where  heaven,  earth,  ocean,  all  are  fair? 
Who  'midst  thy  glowing  scenes  could  dwell, 
Nor  bid  awhile  his  griefs  farewell  1 
Hath  not  thy  pure  and  genial  air 
Balm  for  all  sadness  but  despair  ?  (12) 
No  I  there  are  pangs,  whose  deep-worn  trace 
Not  all  thy  magic  can  efface  I 
Hearts,  by  unkindness  wrung,  may  learn 
The  world  and  all  its  gifts  to  spurn ; 
Time  may  steal  on  with  silent  tread, 
And  dry  the  tear  that  mourns  the  dead ; 
May  change  fond  love,  subdue  regret, 
And  teach  e'en  vengeance  to  forget : 
But  thou,  Remorse  !  there  is  no  charm 
Thy  sting,  avenger,  to  disarm  ! 
Vain  are  bright  suns,  and  laughing  skies, 
To  soothe  thy  victim's  agonies: 
The  heart  once  made  thy  burning  throne, 
Still,  while  it  beats,  is  thine  alone. 

In  vain  for  Otho's  joyless  eye 
Smile  the  fair  scenes  of  Italy, 
As  through  her  landscapes'  rich  array 
Th'  imperial  pilgrim  bends  his  way. 
Thy  form,  Crescentius,  on  his  sight 
Rises  when  nature  laughs  in  light, 
Glides  round  him  at  the  midnight  hour, 
Is  present  in  his  festal  bower, 
With  awful  voice  and  frowning  mien, 
By  all  but  him  unheard,  unseen. 
Oh!  thus  to  shadows  of  the  grave 
Be  every  tyrant  still  a  slave  I 

Where  through  Gargano's  woody  dells, 
O'er  bending  oaks  the  north-wind  swells,  (13 
A  sainted  hermit's  lowly  tomb 
Is  bosom'd  in  umbrageous  gloom, 
In  shades  that  saw  him  live  and  die 
Beneath  their  waving  canopy. 
'Twas  his,  as  legends  tell,  to  share 
The  converse  of  immortals  there ; 
Around  that  dweller  of  the  wild 
There  "  bright  appearances"  have  smiled,  (14 
And  angel-wings,  at  eve,  have  been. 
Gleaming  the  shadowy  boughs  between. 
And  oft  from  that  secluded  bower 
Hath  breathed,  at  midnight's  calmer  hour, 
A  swell  of  viewless  harps,  a  sound 
Of  warbled  anthems  pealing  round. 
Oh,  none  but  voices  of  the  sky 
Might  wake  that  thrilling  harmony, 
Whose  tones,  whose  very  echoes,  made 
An  Eden  of  tho  lonely  shade  1 


Years  have  gone  by ;  the  hermit  sleep* 
Amidst  Gargano's  woods  and  steeps! 
Ivy  and  flowers  have  half  o'ergrown 
And  veil'd  his  low,  sepulchral  stone: 
Yet  still  the  spot  is  holy,  still 
Celestial  footsteps  haunt  the  hill ; 
And  oft  the  awe-struck  mountaineer 
Aerial  vesper-hymns  may  hear 
Around  those  forest-precincts  float, 
Soft,  solemn,  clear,— but  still  remote. 
Oft  will  affliction  breathe  her  plaint 
To  that  rude  shrine's  departed  saint, 
And  deem  that  spirits  of  the  blest 
There  shed  sweet  influence  o'er  her  breast. 

And  thither  Otho  now  repairs, 
To  soothe  his  soul  with  vows  and  prayers. 
And  if  for  him,  on  holy  ground, 
The  lost  one,  Peace,  may  yet  be  found, 
'Midst  rocks  and  forests,  by  the  bed 
Where  calmly  sleep  the  sainted  dead, 
She  dwells,  remote  from  heedless  eye. 
With  Nature's  lonely  majesty. 

Vain,  vain  the  search — his  troubled  breast 
Nor  vow  nor  penance  lulls  to  rest ; 
The  weary  pilgrimage  is  o'er, 
The  hopes  that  cheer'd  it  are  no  more. 
Then  sinks  his  soul,  and  day  by  day. 
Youth's  buoyant  energies  decay. 
The  light  of  health  his  eye  hath  flown. 
The  glow  that  tinged  his  cheek  is  gone. 
Joyless  as  one  on  whom  is  laid 
Some  baleful  spell  that  bids  him  fade. 
Extending  its  mysterious  power 
O'er  every  scene,  o'er  every  hour ; 
E'en  thus  he  withers;  and  to  him, 
Italia's  brilliant  skies  are  dim. 
He  withers — in  that  glorious  clime 
Where  Nature  laughs  in  scorn  of  Time 4 
And  suns,  that  shed  on  all  below 
Their  full  and  vivifying  glow, 
From  him  alone  their  power  withhold. 
And  leave  his  heart  in  darkness  cold. 
Earth  blooms  around  him,  heaven  is  Mf, 
He  only  seems  to  perish  there. 

Yet  sometimes  will  a  transient  smile 
Play  o'er  his  faded  cheek  awhile, 
When  breathes  his  minstrel-boy  a  strain 
Of  power  to  lull  all  earthly  pain ; 
So  wildly  sweet,  its  notes  might  seem 
Th'  ethereal  music  of  a  dream, 
A  spirit's  voice  from  worlds  unknown. 
Deep  thrilling  power  in  every  tone  I 
Sweet  is  that  lay,  and  yet  its  flow 
Hath  language  only  given  to  woe; 
And  if  at  times  its  wakening  swell 
Some  tale  of  glory  seems  to  tell, 
Soon  the  proud  notes  of  triumph  die. 
Lost  in  a  dirge's  harmony  : 
Oh!  many  a  pang  the  heart  hath  proved. 
Hath  deeply  sufler'd,  fondly  loved, 
Ere  the  sad  strain  could  catch  from  thence 
Such  deep  impassion'd  eloquence ! 
Yes!  gaze  on  him,  that  minstrel-boy— 
He  is  no  child  of  hope  and  joy ; 
Though  few  his  years,  yet  have  they  been 
Such  as  leave  traces  on  the  mien, 
And  o'er  the  roses  of  our  prime 
Breathe  other  blights  than  those  of  time. 

Yet,  seems  his  spirit  wild  and  proud, 
By  grief  unsoften'd  and  unhow'd. 
Oh !  there  are  sorrows  which  impart 
A  sternness  foreijn  to  the  heart. 
And  rushing  with  an  earthquake's  powef . 
That  makes  a  desert  in  an  hour; 
Rouse  the  dread  passions  in  their  course. 
As  tempests  wake  the  billows'  force) — 
'Tis  sad  on  youthful  Guido's  face, 
The  stamp  of  woes  like  these  to  truce. 
Oh!  where  can  ruins  awe  mankind 
Dark  as  the  ruins  of  the  mind  ? 

His  mien  is  lofty  but  his  gaze 
Too  well  a  wandering  soul  betrays; 
His  full,  dark  eye  at  times  is  bright 
With  strange  and  momentary  Iip\£. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Whose  quick  uncertain  flashes  throw 
O'er  his  pale  cheek  a  hectic  glow: 
And  toft  his  features  and  his  air 
A  shade  of  troubled  mystery  wear, 
A  glance  of  hurried  wildness,  fraught 
With  some  unfathomable  thought. 
Whate'er  that  thought,  still,  unexpress'd, 
Dwells  the  sad  secret  in  his  breast ; 
The  pride  his  haughty  brow  reveals, 
All  other  passion  well  conceals. 
He  breathes  each  wounded  feeling's  tone 
In  music's  eloquence  alone ; 
His  soul's  deep  voice  is  only  pour'd 
Through  his  full  song  and  swelling  chord. 
He  seeks  no  friend,  but  shuns  the  train 
Of  courtiers  with  a  proud  disdain  ; 
And,  save  when  Oiho  bids  his  lay 
Its  half  unearthly  power  essay. 
In  hall  or  bower  the  heart  to  thrill, 
His  haunts  are  wild  and  lonely  still. 
Par  distant  from  the  heedless  throng, 
He  roves  old  Tiber's  banks  along, 
Where  Empire's  desolate  remains 
Lie  scattered  o'er  the  silent  plains; 
Or,  lingering  'midst  each  niin'd  shrine 
That  strews  the  desert  Palatine, 
With  mournful,  yet  commanding  mien, 
Like  the  sad  Genius  of  the  scene, 
Entranced  in  awful  thought  appears 
To  commune  with  departed  years. 
Or  at  the  dead  of  night,  whe'n  Rome 
Seems  of  heroic  shade*  the  home  ; 
When  Tiber's  murmuring  voice  recall* 
The  mighty  to  their  ancient  halls; 
When  hush'd  is  every  meaner  sound, 
And  the  deep  moonlight-calm  around 
Leaves  to  the  solemn  scene  alone 
The  majesty  of  ages  flown ; 
A  pilgrim  to  each  hero's  tomb, 
He  wanders  through  the  sacred  gloom ; 
And,  'midst  those  dwellings  of  decay, 
At  times  will  breathe  so  sad  a  lay. 
So  wild  a  gramleiir  in  each  tone, 
Tis  like  a  dirge  for  empires  gone ! 

Awake  thy  pealing  harp  again, 
But  breathe  a  more  exulting  strain, 
Young  Guidol  for  awhile  forgot, 
Be  the  dark  secrets  of  thy  lot, 
And  rouse  th1  inspiring  soul  of  song 
To  speed  the  banquet's  hour  along! 
The  feast  is  spread;  and  music's  call 
Is  echoing  through  the  royal  hall, 
And  banners  wave,  and  trophies  shine. 
O'er  stately  guests  in  glittering  line  ; 
And  Otho  seeks  awhile  to  chase 
The  thoughts  he  never  can  erase, 
And  bid  the  voice,  whose  murmurs  deep 
Rise  like  a  spirit  on  his  sleep, 
The  still  small  voice  of  conscience  die. 
Lost  in  the  din  of  revelry. 
On  his  pale  brow  dejection  lowers, 
But  that  shall  yield  to  festal  hours; 
A  gloom  is  in  his  faded  eye. 
But  that  from  music's  power  shall  fly : 
His  wasted  cheek  is  wan  with  care. 
But  mirth  shall  spread  fresh  crimson  there. 
Wake,  Guido!  wake  thy  numbers  high, 
Strike  the  bold  chord  ex'ultinglyl 
And  pour  upon  th'  enraptured  ear 
Such  strains  as  warriors  love  to  heart 
Let  the  rich  mantling  goblet  flow. 
And  banish  al!  resembling  woe; 
And,  if  a  thought  intrude,  of  power 
To  mar  the  bright  convivial  hour, 
Still  must  its  influence  lurk  unseen, 
And  cloud  the  heart — but  not  the  mien! 

A  way,  vain  dream ! — on  Otho's  brow 
Still  darker  lowers  the  shadows  now  ; 
''hanged  are  his  features,  now,  o'erspread 
With  the.  cold  paleness  of  the  dead  ; 
Now  erimson'd  with  a  hectic  dye, 
The  burning  flush  of  agony! 
His  lip  is  quivering,  and  his  breast 
Heaves,  with  convulsive  pangs  oppress'd; 
Now  his  dim  eye  seems  fix'd  and  glazed, 
And  now  to  heaven  in  anguish  raised  ; 


And  as,  with  unavailing  aid. 

Around  him  throng  his  guests  dismay'd, 

He  sinks— while  scarce  his  struggling  breath 

Hath  power  to  falter — "This  is  death  1" 

Then  rush'd  that  haughty  child  of  song. 
Dark  Guido,  through  the  awe-struck  throng 
Fill'd  with  a  strange  delirious  light. 
His  kindling  eye  shone  wildly  bright. 
And  on  the  sufferer's  mien  awhile 
Gazing  with  stern  vindictive  smile, 
A  feverish  glow  of  triumph  dyed 
His  burning  cheek,  while  thus  he  cried: — 
"  Yes!  these  are  death-pangs — on  thy  brow 
Is  set  the  seal  of  vengeance  now  ! 
Oh!  well  was  mix'd  the  deadly  draught, 
And  long  and  deeply  hast  tliou  quaffd  ; 
And  bitter  as  thy  pangs  may  be, 
They  are  but  guerdons  meet  from  me  I 
Yet,  these  are  but  a  moment's  throes, 
Howe'er  intense,  they  soon  shall  close. 
Soon  shall  thou  yield  thy  fleeting  breath, 
My  life  hath  been  a  lingering  death; 
Since  one  dark  hour  of  woe  and  crime, 
A  blood-spot  on  the  page  of  time  ! 

'Deem'st  thou  my  mind  of  reason  ToidT 
It  is  not  phrenzied, — but  destroy'd  1 
Ay!  view  the  wreck  with  shuddering  thought  — 
That  work  of  ruin  thou  hast  wrought! 

"  The  secret  of  thy  doom  to  tell, 
My  name  alone  suffices  well ! 
Stephania  !  once  a  hero's  bride  1 
Otho!  thou  know'st  the  rest — he  died. 
Yes!  trusting  to  a  monarch's  word. 
The  Roman  fell,  untried,  unheard! 
And  thou,  whose  every  pledge  was  vain. 
How  couldst  thou  trust  in  aught  again  ? 

"  He  died,  and  I  was  changed — my  soul, 
A  lonely  wanderer,  spurn'd  control. 
Prom  peace,  and  light,  and  glory  huri'd, 
The  outcast  of  a  purer  world, 
I  saw  each  brighter  hope  o'erthrown, 
And  lived  for  one  dread  task  alone. 
The  task  is  closed— fulfil  I'd  the  vow, 
The  hand  of  death  is  on  thee  now. 
Betrayer!  in  thy  turn  betray'd, 
The  debt  of  blood  shall  soon  be  paid  ! 
Thine  hour  is  come— the  time  hath  been 
My  h  -art  had  shrunk  from  such  a  scene; 
That  feeling  long  is  past — my  fate 
Hath  made 'me  stern  as  desolate. 


nd. 


"  Ye,  that  around  me  shuddering  sta 
Ye  chiefs  and  princes  of  the  land ! 
Mourn  ye  a  guilty  monarch's  doom  f 
— Ye  wept  not  o'er  the  patriot's  tombT 
He  sleeps  unhonour'd — yet  be  mine 
To  share  his  low,  neglected  shrine. 
His  soul  with  freedom  finds  a  home. 
His  grave  is  that  of  glory— Rome  1 
Are  not  the  great  of  old  with  her, 
That  city  of  the  sepulchre  ? 
Lead  me  to  death  !  and  let  me  share 
The  slumbers  of  the  mighty  there !" 

The  day  departs— that  fearful  day 
Fades  in  calm  loveliness  away; 
From  purple  heavens  its  lingering  beam 
Seems  melting  into  Tiber's  stream, 
And  softly  tints  each  Roman  hill 
With  glowing  light,  as  clear  and  still, 
As  if,  unstain'd  by  crime  or  woe, 
Its  hours  had  pass'd  in  silent  flow. 
The  day  sets  calmly— it  hath  been 
Mark'd  with  a  strange  and  awful  seen* 
One  guilty  bosom  throbs  no  more. 
And  Otho's  pangs  and  life  are  o'er. 
And  thou,  ere  yet  another  sun 
His  burning  race  hath  brightly  run. 
Released  from  anguish  by  thy  foes. 
Daughter  of  Rome!  shaft  find  repote.- 
Yes !  on  thy  country's  lovely  sky 
Fix  yet  once  more  thy  parting  eyet 
A  few  short  hours — and  all  shall  be 
The  silent  and  the  past  for  thee. 
Oh!  thus  with  tempests  of  a  day 

7e  struggle,  and  we  pass  away 


HEMANB'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Like  the  wild  billows  as  they  sweep, 
Leaving  no  vestige  on  the  deep! 
And  o'er  thy  dark  and  lowly  bed 
The  sons  of  future  days  shall  tr»-ad, 
The  pangs,  the  conflicts,  of  thy  lot, 
By  them  unknown,  by  thee  forgot. 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1. 

O'er  Hadrian't  mouldering  villa  twine. 

"  .Petals  alle  passer  quelques  jours  seul  a  Tivoli.  Je  partocrus  les 
nviroris,  et  surtout  celles  de  la  Villa  Adriana.  Surpris  rur  la  pluie 
au  milieu  de  ma  course,  je  me  refugiai  dans  les  Salles  d3»  funnel 
voisins  du  Pecile  (monumens  de  la  villa),  sous  un  fipuierfll'  avait 
renverse  le  pan  d'un  mur  en  s'elevant.  Dans  un  petit  salon  octo- 
pme,  (uvffrt  devant  moi.  une  vigne  vierpe  avait  perce  la  voute  de 
''edifice,  et  son  gros  cep  lisse,  rouge,  et  torlueux.  montait  le  long  du 

mines,  s'ou<fi.ient  des  points  de  vue  sur  la  Campagne  Romaine. 
Des  burasons  de  sureau  remplissaient  les  salles  desertes  ou  venaient 
se  rpfngier  qne'qnes  merles  solitaires.  Les  fragmens  de  maconnerie 
e-aienl  tapisses  des  feuilles  de  scolopendre,  aont  la  verdure  satinee  ae 
densinait  comme  un  travail  en  niosaique  sur  la  blanrheur  des  mar. 
bres :  ea  et  la  de  hauts  cypres  remplacaient  les  colonnes  tombees 
dans  ces  palais  de  la  Mort ;  1'acanthe  sauvage  rampait  a  leurs  pieds, 
sur  des  debris,  comme  si  la  nature  t'elait  plu  a  reproduire  sur  cea 
tbef«-d\ruvre  mutile  d'architecture,  1'ornament  de  leur  beaute  pas- 
tee." — Chaieaubi  iaild  Souvenir!  (f  Italic. 

NOTE  2. 

Of  each  imperial  monument. 

The  gardent  and  buildings  of  Hadrian's  villa  were  copies  of  the 
most  celebrated  scenes  and  edifices  in  his  dominions ;  the  Lycssum, 
the  Acadcmia.  the  Prytaneam  of  Athens,  the  Temple  of  Serapis  at 
Alexandria,  the  Vale  of  Tempe,  &c- 

NOTE  3. 

Sunk  is  thy  palace,  tut  thy  tomb, 
Hadrian  1  hath  snared  a  prouder  doom. 

The  mausoleum  of  Hadrian,  now  the  castle  of  St.  Annlo.  was 
fir.l  converted  into  a  citadel  by  Belmriu-,  in  his  successful  defence 
af  Rome  against  the  Goihs.  ••'  The  lover  of  the  arts,"  says  Gibbon, 
••  must  read  with  a  sigh,  that  the  works  of  Praxiteles  and  Lysippus 
were  torn  from  their  lofty  pedestals,  and  hurled  into  the  ditch"  on  Ihe 
heads  of  the  besiegers."  He  adds,  in  a  note,  that  the  celebrated 
Sleeping  Faun  of  me  Barbariui  palace  was  found,  in  a  mutilated 
stale,  when  the  ditch  of  St.  Angelo  was  cleansed  under  Urban  VIII. 
In  the  middle  ages,  the  moles  Hadriatii  was  made  a  permanent  for- 
tress by  the  Roman  government,  and  bastions,  outworks,  &c.  were 
added  to  the  original  edifice,  which  had  been  stripped  of  its  marble 
covering,  its  Corinthian  pillars,  and  the  brazen  cone  which  crowned 

NOTE  4. 

Baoe  found,  like  glory't  telf,  a  grave 
In  time's  abyss,  or  Tier's  wave. 

"  Les  plus  beaux  monument  dec  arts,  les  plus  admirable*  statues 
ont  etes  jetees  dans  le  Tifare,  et  sont  cachees  sous  ses  dots.  Qui  sail 
'i.  pour  let  cbeicher,  on  ne  ledeiournera  pas  un  jour  de  ton  lit? 
Mais  quand  on  songe  que  les  clief-d'«uvres  du  genie  humain  sont 
oeut-etre  la  devant  nous,  et  qu'un  ceil  plus  percant  les  verrait  a  Ira- 
Jtrs  lei  ondes,  1'on  eprouve  je  ne  sais  quelle  emotion  qui  renait  a 
Home  sans  cesse  sous  diverse!  formes,  et  fait  trouver  une  societe 
(our  la  pensee  dans  les  objets  physiques,  muets  pirtout  ailleurs."* 
Had.  de  Staei. 

NOTE  5. 

There  doted  De  Bracia't  mutton  high, 
From  thence  the  patriot  came  to  die. 

Arnold  de  Brescia,  the  undaunted  and  eloquent  champion  of  Ro- 
snan  liberty,  after  unremitting  efforts  to  restore  the  ancient  constitu- 
tion of  the  republic,  was  put  to  dealh  in  the  year  1155,  by  Adrian 
|  IV.  This  event  is  thus  described  by  Sitmondi,  Hiitoire  det  Repub- 
Hquet  Italiennet,  vol.  ii.  pages  66  and  69.  "  Le  prefect  demeura 
dans  le  chateau  Saint  Ange  avec  SOD  prisonnier ;  il  le  fit  transporter 
un  matin  sur  la  place  destinee  aux  executions,  devant  la  Porte  du 
Peuple.  Arnaud  de  Brescia,  eleve  sur  un  bucher,  fut  attache  a  un 
po'eau,  en  face  du  Cprso.  II  pouvo^  mesurer  rits  yeux  les  trois 
tongues  rues  qui  abou'istoieqt  devant  son  echafa/tf  ;  elles  font  pres* 
qu'une  anoitie  de  Rome.  C'est  la  qu'habitomX  les  hommes  qu'il 
avoit  ti  touvent  appeles  a  la  Itberte.  lit  repos*  Knt  encore  en  paix, 
ignorant  le  danger  de  leur  teeislateur.  Le  tun  ulte  de  1'execution  et 
la  flamme  du  bucher  reveifleren!  les  Romains;  ils  s'armerent,  ils 
accoururent,  mats  trop  tard ;  et  les  cohortes  du  pape  repousserent, 
avec  leur  lances,  ceux  qui,  n'ayant  pu  sauver  Arnaud,  votlloient  du 
oioint  recueillir  tea  cendres  comme  de  precieuses  reliques." 

NOTE  6. 

Spdkt  with  the  voice  ofaget  pall. 

"Posterity  will  compare  Ihe  virtues  and  failings  of  this  extraor- 
dinary man ;  but  in  a  long  period  of  anarchy  and  servitude  the  name 
of  Rienzi  has  often  been  celebrated  as  Ihe  deliverer  of  hit  country, 
and  the  last  of  Ihe  Roman  patriots."— GiWwn's  Decline  and  Fall, 
tc.  vol  xi,.  p.  362. 


NOTE  7. 

Couldxt  gaxe  on  Rome — yet  not  despair  ! 

"  Le  consul  Terentius  Varron  avoit  ful  honteusement  jusqu'a  Ve- 
nouse:  cet  homme  de  la  plus  batse  naissance,  n'avoit  etc  eleve  aa 
consulat  que  pour  mortifier  la  noblesse  :  mais  le  senat  ne  voulul  pas 
jouir  de  ce  malbeureux  triomphe  ;  il  vit  combien  il  etoit  necessaire 
qu'il  s'atlirat  dans  cette  occasion  la  con  fiance  du  peuple.  il  alia  au- 
aevant  Varron,  et  le  remercia  de  ce  gu'ti  u'avoit  vat  deiapere  de  I* 
republique." — Mtjntetquieu.  Grandeur  et  Decadence  det  Rnrnain* 

NOTE  8. 

Vain  dream  I  the  sacred  ihieldt  are  gone. 

Of  the  sacred  bucklers,  or  ancilia  of  Rome,  which  were  kept  in 
the  temple  of  Mars,  Plutarch  gives  the  following  account.  "  In  the 
eighth  year  of  Numa'i  reign  a  pestilence  prevailed  in  Italy  ;  Rum* 
also  felt  its  ravages.  While  the  people  were  greatly  dejected,  we 
are  told  that  a  brazen  buckler  fell  from  heaven  into  the  bands  of 
Numa.  Of  this  he  gave  a  very  wonderful  account,  received  from 
Egena  and  the  Muses:  that  Ihe  buckler  was  sent  down  for  the  pre- 
servation of  the  city,  and  should  be  kept  with  great  care:  that 
eleven  others  should  be  made  as  like  it  as  possible  iu  tize  and 
fashion,  in  order  that  if  any  person  were  disposed  In  steal  it,  ha 
might  not  be  able  to  dwinguish  that  which  fell  From  heaven  from 
Ihe  rest.  He  further  declared,  that  Ihe  place,  and  the  meadows  about 
it,  where  he  frequently  conversed  with  the  Muses,  should  b».  conse- 
crated to  those  divinities;  and  that  the  spring  which  watered  Ihe 
ground  should  be  sacred  to  Ihe  use  of  the  Vestal  Virgins,  daily  to 
sprinkle  and  purify  their  temple.  The  immediate  cessation  of  the 
pestilence  is  »aid  to  have  confirmed  the  truth  of  this  account."— 
Life  of  Numa. 

NOTE  9. 

Sunk  it  the  crowning  city's  throne. 

"  Who  hath  taken  this  counsel  against  Tyre,  the  crowning  city, 
whose  merchants  are  princes,  whose  traffickers  are  the  honourable 
of  the  earth  ?"— haiah,  chap,  xxiii. 

NOTE  10. 

Their  guardian  ipellt  have  long  been  post. 
"  Un  melange  bizarre  de  grandeur  d  ame,  et  de  foiblesse  entroi' 
des  cette  epoque  (1'onzieme  tlecle)  dans  le  caractere  des  domain-.— 
Un  mouvement  genereux  vers  les  grandes  choses  faisoit  place  tout-a- 
coup  a  I'abaltement ;  ils  passoient  de  la  liberle  la  plus  orageuse,  a  la 
servitude  la  plus  avilissante.  On  auroit  dil  que  les  ruines  et  lea 
portiques  deserts  de  la  capilale  du  monde,  entretenoient  ses  habitant 

de  leur  domination  passee,  les  citoyens  eprouvoient  d'une  manient 
trop  decourageante  leur  propre  nullite.  Le  nom  des  Remains  qu'ils 
portoient  ranimoit  freo,uetnment  leur  enthousbsme,  comme  il  le  ra 
mine  encore  aujourdtiui;  mais  bientot  la  vue  df  Rome,  du  Forum 
desert,  des  sept  collinet  de  nouveau  rendues  au  patunge  des  Irou- 
peaux,  des  temples  desoles,  des  monumens  tombant  en  rume,  les  ra- 
menoit  a  tentir  qu'ils  n'etoient  plus  les  Romains  d'autrefois." — Ota- 
mondi.  Hittoire  da  Repulliquu  Italiennet,  vol.  i.  p.  172. 

NOTE  11. 

Lingered  the  lord  of  eloquence  f 

"  As  tor  Cicero,  he  was  carried  to  Astyra,  where,  finding  a  vessel, 
ne  immediately  went  on  board,  and  coasted  along  to  Circseum  with 
a  favourable  wind.  The  pilots  were  preparing  immediately  to  sail 
from  thence,  but  whether  it  was  that  he  feared  Ihe  sea,  or  had  nnt 
yet  given  up  all  his  hopes  in  Csnar,  he  disembarked,  and  travelled 
a  hundred  furlongs  on  foot,  as  if  Rome  had  been  the  place  of  his 
destination.  Repenting,  however,  afterwards,  be  left  that  road  and 
made  again  for  the  sea.  He  passed  the  night  in  the  most  perplexing 
and  horrid  thoughts;  insomuch,  that  he  was  sometimes  inclined  to 
go  privately  into  Cesar's  house  and  stab  himself  upon  the  altar  of 
his  domestic  gods,  to  bring  the  divine  vengeance  upon  his  betrayer. 
But  he  was  deterred  from  ihis  by  ihe  fear  of  torture.  Oiher  alterna- 
tives equally  distressful  presented  themselves.  At  last  he  put  him- 
telf  in  the  hands  of  his  servants,  and  ordered  them  to  carry  him  by 
tea  tnCajela,  where  he  had  a  delightful  retreat  in  the  summer,  when 
Ihe  Etesian  winds  set  in.  There  was  a  temple  of  Apollo  on  that 
coast,  from  which  a  flight  of  crows  came  with  great  noise  towardt 
Cicero's  vessel  as  it  was  making  land.  They  perched  on  both  sides 
the  sail-yard,  where  some  sat  croaking,  and  others  pecking  the  ends 
of  the  ropes.  All  looked  upon  this  as  an  ill  omen  ;  yet  Cicero  wrnt 
on  shore,  and,  entering  his  house,  lay  down  to  repose  himself.  In 
the  mean  time  a  number  of  crows  settled  in  the  chamber-'vindnw, 
and  croaked  in  the  most  doleful  manner.  One  of  them  evei.  entered 
il,  and  alighting  on  Ihe  bed,  attempted,  with  its  beak,  to  draw  off 
the  clothes  with  which  he  had  covered  hit  face.  On  light  of  this, 
the  servants  began  to  reproach  themselves.  '  Shall  we,'  said  they, 
1  remain  to  be  spectators  of  our  master's  murder?  Shall  we  not  pm 
tect  him,  to  innocent  and  so  great  a  sufterer  as  he  is,  when  the  bru 
creatures  give  him  marks  of  their  care  and  attention  ?'  Then,  par  I 
by  entreaty,  partly  by  force,  they  got  him  into  bis  litter,  and  eat; 
him  towards  the  tea."— Plutarch.  Lift  of  Cicero. 

NOTE  12. 

Calm  for  all  tadnut  tut  despair  f 

Meets  his  approach,  and  to  the  heart  inspires 
Vernal  delight  and  joy,  able  to  drive 
All  sadness  but  despair." — Milton, 

NOTE  13. 

O'er  bending  ooJa  the  narth-wmd  twettt. 

Mount  Gargano.  u  This  ridge  of  mountains  form*  a  rery  large 
promontory  advancing  into  the  Adriatic,  and  separated  from  Utf 


40 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Apennines  on  the  west  by  (be  plain  of  Lucera  and  San  Severn.  W 
look  a  ride  into  the  heart  or  the  mountains  through  shady  delli  and 
noble  woods,  which  brought  to  our  minds  the  venerable  groves  that 
in  ancient  times  bent  with  the  loud  winds  sweeping  along  the  rugged 
side*  of  Garganus. 

•  Aquilonibut 

Querceta  Gargani  laborant, 

Et  fbliis  viduantur  o 


Th»r«  is  a  respectable  brat  of  mitres*  sad  comae  on,  p 


hornbeam,  chestnut,  and  mann 
duxriously  cultivated,  and  see 
Uon."— Swinburntl  Traveli. 


i-aah.   The  sheltered  valleri  are  n 
n  to  be  bleat  with  luzuriut  vegtta- 


XOT*  14. 

Then  "  bright  apptarancu"  have  tmHed. 
'  In  yonder  nether  world  where  shall  I  seek 
His)  bright  appearances,  or  fooUlep  tract  r"— J 


THE  LAST   BANQUET 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 


1  Antony,  concluding  that  he  could  not  die  more  hon- 
ourably than  in  battle,  determined  to  attack  Cesar  a( 
the  same  time  both  by  sea  and  land.  The  night  pre- 
ceding the  execution  of  this  design,  he  ordered  hw 
servants  at  supper  to  render  him  their  best  service! 
that  evening,  and  fill  the  wine  round  plentifully,  for 
the  day  following  they  might  belong  to  another  mas- 
ter, whilst  he  lay  extended  on  ihe  ground,  no  lon?er  of 
consequence  either  to  them  or  to  himself.  His  friends 
were  affected,  and  wept  to  hear  him  talk  thus ;  which 
when  he  perceived,  he  encouraged  them  by  assu- 
rances that  his  expectations  of  a  glorious  victory 
were  at  least  equal  to  those  of  an  honourable  death. 
At  the  dead  of  night,  when  universal  silence  reigned 
through  the  city,  a  silence  that  was  deepened  by  the 
awful  thought  of  the  ensuing  dny,  on  a  sudden  was 
heard  the  sound  of  musical  instruments,  and  a  noise 
which  resembled  the  exclamations  of  Bacchanals. 
This  tumultuous  procession  seemed  to  past  •iirough 
the  whole  city,  and  to  go  out  at  the  gate  wr.Jch  led 
to  t>  enemy's  camp.  Those  who  reflected  on  this 
prodiey  concluded  that  Bacchus,  the  god  whom  An- 
tony affected  to  imitate,  had  then  forsaken  him  " 

l.anekornc's  Plutarch. 


THY  foes  had  girt thee  with  their  dread  array, 

O  stately  Alexandria  !— yet  the  sound 
Of  mirth  and  music,  at  the  close  of  day, 

Swell'd  from  thy  splendid  fabrics  far  around 
O'er  camp  and  wave.     Within  the  royal  hall, 

[ti  gay  magnificence  the  feast  was  spread  ; 
And  brightly  streaming  from  the  pictured  wall, 

A  thousand  lamps  tin  ir  trembling  lustre  shed 
O'er  many  a  column  rich  with  trembling  dyes. 
That  tinge  the  marble's  vein,  'neath  Afric's  burn- 
ing skies. 

And  soft  and  clear  that  wavering  radiance  play'd 
O'er   sculptured  forms  that  round  the  pillar'd 

scene 
Calm  and  majestic  rose,  by  art  array'd 

[n  god-like  beauty,  awfully  serene. 
Oh  '  ^ow  unlike  the  troubled  guests,  reclined 

Round  that  luxurious  board  ! — in  every  face, 
Pome  shadow  from  the  tempest  of  the  mind 

Rising  by  fits,  this  searching  t-ye  might  trace 
Though  vainly  mask'd  in  smiles  which  are  not 

mirth, 

But  the  proud  spirit's  veil  thrown  o'er  the  woes  of 
earth. 

Their  brows  are  bound  with  wreaths  whose  tran- 
sient bloom 

May  still  survive  the  wearers — and  the  rose 
Perchance  may  scarce  he  wither'd  when  the  tomb 

Receives  the  mighty  to  its  dark  repose! 
The  day  must  dawn  on  battle — and  may  set 

In  death— but  fill  the  mantling  wine-cup  high! 


"'  epair  is  fearless,  and  the  Fates  e'en  yet 

Lend  her  one  hour  for  parting  revelry. 
They  who  the  empire  of  the  world  possess'a 
Would  taste  its  joys  again,  ere  all  exchanged  fe« 
rest. 

Its  joys!  oh!  mark  yon  proud  triumvir's  mien. 

And  rea  I  thnir  annals  on  that  brow  of  care  ! 
'Midst  pleasure's  lotus-bowers  his  steps  have  been 

Earth's  brightest  pathway  led  him  to  despair. 
Trust  not  the  glance  that  fain  would  yet  inspire 

The  buoyant  energies  of  days  gone  by; 
There  is  delusion  in  its  meteor-fire. 

And  all  within  is  shame,  is  agony! 
Away!  the  tear  in  bitterness  may  flow. 
But  there  are  smiles  which  bear  a  stampof  deeper 
woe. 

Thy  cheek  is  sunk,  and  faded  as  thy  fame, 

O  lost,  devoted  Roman  !  yet  thy  brow 
To  that  ascendant  and  undying  name. 

Pleads  with  stern  loftiness  thy  right  e'en  now. 
Thy  glory  is  departed — but  hath  left 

A  lingering  light  around  thee— in  decay 
Not  less  than  kingly,  though  of  all  bereft, 

Thou  seum'st  as  empire  had  not  pass'd  away. 
Supreme  in  ruin  1  teaching  hearts  elate. 
A  deep,  prophetic  dread  of  still  mysterious  fate  ! 

But   thou,   enchantress-queen !   whose  love  hath 
made 

His  desolation — thou  art  by  his  side, 
In  all  thy  sovereignty  of  charms  array'd. 

To  meet  the  storm  with  still  unconquer'd  pride. 
Imperial  being!  e'en  though  many  a  stain 

Of  error  he  upon  thee,  there  is  power 
In  thy  commanding  nature, which  shall  reign 

O'er  the  stern  genius  of  misfortune's  hour; 
And  the  dark  beauty  of  thy  troubled  eye 
E'en  now  is  all  illumined  with  wild  sublimity. 

Thine  aspect  all  impassion'd  wears  a  light 

Inspiring  and  inspired— thy  cheek  a  dye, 
Which  rises  not  from  joy,  but  yet  is  bright 

With  the  deep  glow  of  feverish  energy. 
Proud  siren  of  the  Nile  !  thy  glance  is  fraught 

With  an  immortal  fire — in  every  beam 
It  darts,  there  kindles  some  heroic  thought, 

But  wild  and  awful  as  a  sibyl's  dream  ; 
For  thou  with  death  hast  communed,  to  attain 
Dread  knowledge  of  the  pangs  that  ransom  frou 
the  chain.  (1) 

And  the  stern  courage  by  such  musings  lent, 

Daughter  of  Afric  !  o'er  thy  beauty  throws 
The  grandeur  of  a  regal  spirit,  blent 

With  all  the  majesty  of  mighty  woeil 
While  he  so  fondly,  fatally  adored, 

Thy  fallen  Roman,  ua7.es  on  thee  yet. 
Till  scarce  the  soul,  that  once  exulting  soar'd, 

Can  deem  the  day-star  of  its  glorv  set ; 
(V) 


48 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Fcare  his  oharm'd  heart  believesthat  power  can  be 
la  sovereign  fate,  o'er  him,  thus  fondiy  loved 

by  thee. 
But  there  is  sadness  in  the  eyes  around, 

Which  mark  that  ruin'd  leader,  and  survey 
His  changeful  mien,  whence   oft  the  gloom 
profound 

Strange  triumph  chases  haughtily  away. 
•'Fill  the  bright  goblet,  warrior  guests!"  hj  cries, 

»'  Quaff,  ere  we  part,  tho  generous  nectar  deep! 
Ere  sunset  gi'd  once  more  the  western  skies, 

Your  chietinco  d  f'irKetfiiilness  may  s'eep, 
"Whi'e  sounds  of  re  ve'  float  o'er  shore  and  sea, 
And  the  red  bowl  again  is  crowu'd — but  not  forme. 
"Yet  weep  not  thus— the  strugf!^  is  not  o'er, 

O  victors  of  Philippi !  many  a  field 
Hath  yielded  pa'ms  to  us: — one  effort  more, 

By  one  stern  couflict  must  our  doom  beseal'dl 
Forget  not,  Romans !  oVr  a  subject  wor  d 

How  roya'ly  your  eagle's  wing  hath  spread, 
Though  from  his  pyri°i  of  dominion  hur^'d 

Now  bursts  the  tempest  on  his  crested  head ; 
Yet  sovereign  sti  1,  if  banished  from  the  sky, 
The  sun's  indignant  bird,  he  must  not  droop 

—but  die. 
The  feast  is  o'er.    'Tis  night,  the  dead  of  night — 

Unbroken  stillness  broods  o'er  earth  and  deep; 
From  Egypt's  heaven  of  soft  and  starry  light 

The  moon  looka  cloudless  or  a  world  of  sleep; 
For  those  who  wait  the  mem 'a  awakening  beams, 

The  battle  signal  to  decide  their  doom, 
Have  sunk  to  feverish  rest  and  troubled  dreams; 

Best,  that  shall  soon  be  calmer  in  the  tomb. 
Dreams,  dark  and  ominous,  but  thereto  cease, 
When  sleep  the  lords  of  war  in  solitude  aud  peace. 
Wake,  slumberers,  wake!  Hark!  heard  ye  not 
a  sound 

Of  gathering  tumult? — near  and  nearer  still 
Its  murmur  swells.  Above,  below,  around 

Bursts  a  strange  chorus  f  orth,conf  used  and 

shrill. 
Wake,  Alexandria!  through  thy  streetsthe  tread 

Of  steps  unseen  is  hurrying,  and  the  note 
Of  pipe,  and  lyre,  and  trumpet,  wild  and  dread 

Is  heard  upon  the  midnight  air  to  float; 
And  voicesclamerous  as  in  frenzied  mirth, 
Mingle  their  thousand  tones  which  are  not  of  the 
earth. 

These  are  no  mortal  sounds — their  thrilling  strain 

Hath  more  mysterious  power,  and  birth  more 

high: 
Arid  the  deep  horror  chilling  every  vein 

Owns  them  of  stern,  terrific  augury. 
Beings  of  worlds  unknown  !  ye  pass  away, 

O  ye  invisible  and  awful  throng  1 
Your  echoing  footsteps  and  resounding  lay 

To  Cffisar's  cunip  exulting  move  along. 
Thy  gods  forsake  thee,  Antony!  the  sky 
By  that  dread  sign  reveals — thy  doom — "Despair 
and  die  !"  (9.) 


, 

inful  in  the  operation,  she  tried 

the  capital  convicts.    Such  poisons  aa  were  quick  in  their 
,  she  found  to  be  attended  with  violent  pain  and  convul- 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1. 

Dread  knowledge  of  the  pangs  that  ransom  from  the  chain, 
Cleopatra  made  a  collection  of  poisonous  drugs,  and  being  d 

to  ascertai 

tbem 

operation, 

sions  ;  such  as  were  mildest  were  slow  in  their  effect  :  she  therere 

applied  herself  to  the  examination  of  venomous  creatures  ;  at  .ength 

she  found  that  the  bite  of  the  asp  was  the  most  eligible  kind  of  doth. 

for  it  brought  on  a  gradual  kind  of  lethargy.  —  See  Plutarch. 

NOTE  2. 
Despair  and  die! 

>nd  bll  thyedgeleu  iword;  despair  and  die' 

Richard  Uf 


in 


After  describing  the  conquest  of  Greece  and  Italy  by  the 
German  and  Scythian  hordes,  united  under  the  com- 
mand of  Alarlc,  the  historian  of  "The  Decline  and 
Pall  of  the  Roman  Empire,"  thus  proceeds: — "Whether 
fame,  or  conquest,  or  riches,  were  the  object  of  Alarie, 
he  pursued  that  object  with  an  indefatigable  ardonr, 
which  could  neither  be  quelled  by  adversity,  nor  satia- 
ted by  success.  No  sooner  had  he  reached  the  extreme 
land  of  Italy,  than  ha  was  attracted  by  the  neighbour- 
ing prospect  of  a  fair  and  peaceful  island.  Yet  even 
the  possession  of  Sicily  he  considered  only  as  an  inter- 
mediate step  to  the  important  expedition  which  he  al- 
ready meditated  against  the  continent  of  Africa.  The 
straits  of  Kheginm  and  Messina  are  twelve  miles  in 
length,  and,  In  the  narrowest  passage,  about  one  mile 
and  a  half  broad  ;  and  the  fabulous  monsters  of  the  deep, 
the  rocks  rf  Scylla,  and  the  whirlpool  of  CharylKjiB, 
could  terrify  none  but  the  most  timid  and  unskilful 
mariners  ;  yet,  as  soon  as  the  first  division  of  the  Goths 
had  embarked  a  sudden  tempest  arose,  which  sunk  or 
scattered  many  of  the  transports;  their  courage  was 
daunted  by  the  terrors  of  a  new  element;  and  the  whole 
design  was  defeated  by  the  premature  death  of  Alarie, 
which  fixed,  after  a  short  illness,  the  fatal  term  of  his 
conquests.  The  ferocious  character  of  the  barbarian? 
was  displayed  in  the  funeral  of  a  hero,  whose  valour 
and  fortune  they  celebrated  with  mournful  applause. 
By  tSc  labor  of  a  captive  multitude  they  forcibly  di- 
verted tie  course  of  the  Busentinus,  a  small  river  that 
washes  tee  walls  of  Consentia.  The  royal  sepulchre, 
adorned  with  the  splendid  spoils  and  trophies  of  Rome, 
was  constructed  in  the  vacant  bed;  the  waters  were 
then  restored  to  their  natural  channel,  and  the  secret 
spot,  wtere  the  remains  of  Alarlc  had  been  deposited, 
was  forever  concealed  by  the  inhuman  massacre  of  the 
prisoners  who  had  been  employed  'o  execute  the  work." 
—See  The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  vol.  v. 
p.  329. 


HEARD  ye  the  Gothic  trumpet's  blast? 
The  march  of  hosts,  as  Alarie  pass'd? 
His  steps  have  track'd  that  glorious  clime, 
The  birth-place  of  heroic  time; 
But  he,  in  northern  deserts  bred, 
Spared  not  the  living  for  the  dead.(l) 
Nor  heurd  the  voice,  whose  pleading  cries 
From  temple  and  from  tomb  arise. 
He  pass'd— the  light  of  burning  fanes 
Hath  been  his  torch  o'er  Grecian  plains; 
And  woke  they  not — the  brave,  the  free, 
To  guard  their  own  Thermopylae? 
And  left  they  riot  their  silent  dwelling, 
When  Scythia's  note  of  war  was  swelling  7 
\o!  where  the  bold  Three  Hundred  slept. 
Sad  Freedom  battled  not— but  wept! 
For  nerveless  then  the  Spartan's  hand, 
And  Thebes  could  rouse  no  Sacred  Band* 
Nor  one  high  soul  from  slumber  broke, 
When  Athens  own'd  the  northern  yoke 

But  was  there  none  for  thee  to  dare 
The  conflict,  scorning  to  despair  ? 
O  city  of  the  seven  proud  hills! 
Whose  name  e'en  yet  the  spirit  thrills, 
As  doth  a  clarion's  battle-call, 
Didst  thou  too,  ancient  empress,  fall? 
Did  not  Camilius  from  the  chain 
Ransom  thy  Capitol  again  ? 
Oh!  who  shall  tell  the  days  to  be, 
No  patriot  rose  to  bleed  for  thee? 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


49 


Heard  ye  the  Gothic  trumpet's  blast  1 
The  march  of  hosts,  as  Alaric  pass'd? 
That  fearful  sound,  at  midnight  deep,  (2) 
Burst  on  th'  eternal  city's  sleep: 
How  woke  the  mighty  ?    She,  whose  will 
So  long  had  bid  the  world  be  still, 
Her-  sword  a  sceptre,  and  her  eye 
Th'  ascendant  star  of  destiny  ! 
She  woke — to  view  the  dread  array 
Of  Scythians  rushing  to  their  prey. 
To  hear  her  streets  resound  the  criea 
Pour'd  from  a  thousand  agonies  ! 
While  the  strange  light  of  flames,  that  gavo 
A  ruddy  glow  to  Tiber's  wave, 
Bursting  in  that  terrific  hour 
From  fane  and  palace,  dome  and  tower, 
Reveal'd  the  throngs,  for  aid  divine 
Clinging  to  many  a  worshipp'd  shrine; 
Fierce,  fitful  radiance  wildly  shed 
O'er  spear  and  sword  with  carnage  red, 
Shone  o'er  the  suppliant  and  the  flying, 
And  kindled  pyres  for  Romans  dying. 

Weep,  Italy!  alas!  that  e'er 
Should  tears  alone  thy  wrongs  declare! 
The  time  hath  been  when  thy  distress 
Had  roused  up  empires  for  redress  1 
Now,  her  long  race  of  glory  run, 
Without  a  combat  Rome  is  won, 
And  from  her  plunder'd  temples  forth 
Rush  the  fierce  children  of  the  nojth, 
To  share  beneath  more  genial  skies 
Each  joy  their  own  rude  clime  denies. 

Ye  who  on  bright  Campania's  shore 
Bade  your  fair  villas  rise  of  yore, 
With  all  their  graceful  colonnades, 
And  crystal  baths  and  myrtle  shades, 
Along  the  blue  Hesperian  deep, 
iVhose  glassy  waves  in  sunshine  sleep; 
(c'eneath  your  olive  and  your  vine 

ar  other  inmates  now  recline 
And  the  tall  plane,  whose  roots  ye  fed 
With  rich  libations  duly  shed,(M) 
O'er  guests,  unlike  your  vanishM  friends, 
lt«  bowery  canopy  extends  : 
For  them  the  southern  heaven  is  glowing, 
The  bright  Falernian  nectar  flowing; 
Fur  them  the  marble  halls  unfold, 
Where  nobler  beings  dwelt  of  old, 
Whose  children  for  barbarian  lords 
Touch  the  sweet  lyre's  resounding  chords, 
Or  wreaths  of  Pa-stan  roses  twine. 
To  crown  the  sons  of  Elbe  and  Rhine. 
Vet  though  luxurious  they  repose 
Beneath  Corinthian  porticoes, 
While  round  them  into  being  start 
The  marvels  of  triumphant  art; 
Oh  !  not  for  them  hath  Genius  given 
To  Parian  stone  the  lire  of  heaven, 
Enshrining  in  the  forms  he  wrought 
A  bright  eternity  of  thought, 
lu  vain  the  natives  of  the  skies 
In  breathing  marble  round  them  rise. 
And  sculptured  nymphs,  of  fount  or  glade 
People  the  dark-green  laurel  sharie; 
Cold  is  the  conqueror's  heart  and  eye 
To  visions  of  divinity; 
And  ruife  his  hand  which  dares  deface 
The  models  of  immortal  grace. 

Arouse  ye  from  your  soft  delights  I 
I'hieftaiiis!  the  war-note's  call  invite*; 

Vnd  other  lands  must  yet  be  won, 

\nd  other  deeds  of  havoc  done. 
Warriors !  your  flowery  bondage  break, 
Sons  of  the  stormy  north,  awake! 
The  barks  are  launching  from  the  steep, 
Soon  shall  the  Isle  of  Ceres  weep,(4) 
And  Afric's  burning  winds  afar 
Waft  the  shrill  sounds  of  Alaric's  war. 
Where  shall  his  race  of  victory  close  ? 
When  shall  the  ravaged  earth  repose  ? 
But  hark  !  what  wildly  mingling  cries 
From  Scythia's  camp  tumultuous  rise  ? 


Why  swells  dread  Alaric's  name  on  air? 
A  sterner  conqueror  hath  been  there  1 
A  conqueror — yet  his  paths  are  peace. 
He  comes  to  bring  the  world's  release; 
He  of  the  sword  that  knows  no  sheath, 
Tir  avenger,  the  deliver — Death  1 

Is  then  that  daring  spirit  fled? 
Doth  Alaric  slumber  with  the  dead? 
Tamed  are  the  warrior's  pride  and  strength, 
And  he  and  earth  are  cnlm  at  length. 
The  land  where  heaven  unclouded  shines, 
Where  sleep  the  sunbeams  on  the  viuog  ; 
The  land  by  conquest  made  his  own 
Can  yield  him  now— a  grave  alone. 
But  his — her  lord  from  Alp  to  sea— 
No  common  sepulchre  shall  be  I 
Oh,  make  his  tomb  where  mortal  eye 
Its  buried  wealth  may  ne'er  descry  ! 
Where  mortal  foot  may  never  tread 
Above  a  victor-monarch's  bed. 
Let  not  his  royal  dust  be  hid 
'Neath  star-aspiring  pyramid; 
Nor  bid  the  gather'd  mound  arise. 
To  bear  his  memory  to  the  skies. 
Years  roll  away — oblivion  claims 
Her  triumph  o'er  heroic  names; 
And  hands  profane  disturb  the  clay         • 
That  once  was  fired  with  glory's  ray  ! 
And  Avarice,  from  their  secret  gloom, 
Drags  e'en  the  treasures  of  the  tomb. 
But  tliou,  O  leader  of  the  free  ! 
That  general  doom  awaits  not  thee! 
Thou,  where  no  step  may  e'er  intrude, 
Shalt  rest  in  regal  solitude, 
Till,  bursting  on  thy  sleep  profound, 
Th'  Awakener's  final  trumpet  sound. 
Turn  ye  the  waters  from  their  course. 
Bid  Nature  yield  to  human  force, 
And  hollow  in  the  torrent's  bed 
A  chamber  for  the  mighty  dead. 
The  work  is  done — the  captive's  hand 
Hath  well  obey'd  his  lord's  command. 
Within  that  royal  tomb  are  cast 
The  richest  trophies  of  the  past. 
The  wealth  of  many  a  stately  dome, 
The  gold  and  gems  of  plunder'd  Rome: 
And  when  the  midnight  stars  are  beaming 
And  ocean-waves  in  stillness  gleaming, 
Stern  in  their  grief,  his  warriors  bear 
The  Chastener  of  the  Nations  there; 
To  rest  at  length  from  victory's  toil, 
Alone,  with  all  an  empire's  spoil! 

Then  the  freed  current's  rushing  wave 
Rolls  o'er  the  secret  of  the  grave; 
Then  streams  the  martyr'd  captives'  blood 
To  crimson  that  sepulchral  flood. 
Whose  conscious  tide  alone  shall  keep 
The  mystery  in  its  bosom  deep. 
Time  hath  past  on  since  th-n  — and  swept 
From  earth  the  urns  where  heroes  slept; 
Temples  of  gods,  and  douit-s  of  kinars, 
Are  moulderiiie  with  forirotten  things; 
Yet  shall  not  asn-s  e'er  molest. 
Thi>  viewles-!  home  nf  Marie's  rest: 
Still  rolls,  like  thriii.  til'  unfailing  river, 
The  guardian  of  his  dust  for  ever. 


NOTES. 

NOTE  1. 

Spared  not  the  living  for  the  rfeorf. 
After  the  taking  nf  Athens  by  Sylla,  "thmish  s 


put 


h  numbers  wtn 

ord,"there  were  as  many  who  laid  violent  hindi  npoo 
in  irrief  fnr  their  sinking  country.  What  reduced  th« 
best  men  among  them  to  this  despair  of  find  in?  any  mercy  or  mode- 
rate terms  for  Athens,  was  'he  well-known  cruelty  of  Sylla:  »et 
partly  by  the  intercession  of  Midirw  and  Calliphon,  and  the  exilei 
who  threw  (hemsehes  at  his  feet,  partly  by  rhe  entreaties  nf  tha 
senators  who  attended  him  in  'hat  expedition,  and  being  himself  sa- 
tiated with  blood  besides,  he  was  at  last  prevailed  upon  to  stop  hi» 
hand,  and  in  compliment  to  the  ancient  Athenians,  he  said,  uhe  for- 
pive  the  many  for  the  sake  of  the  few,  {he  living  for  tla  dtad.r- 
Plutarxh. 


50 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


NOTE  2. 

That  fearful  sound,  at  midnight  deep. 

"  At  the  hour  of  midnight,  the  Salarian  ca'e  was  silently  opened, 
it.-  the  inhabitant!  were  awakened  by  the  tremendous  sound  of  the 
Gnhic  trumpet.  Eleven  hundred  and  sixty-three  years  after  the 
foundation  of  Rome,  the  imperial  ci'y,  which  hid  subdued  and  civi 
lized  so  considerable  a  portion  of  mankind,  was  delivered  to  the  li- 
tentious  fury  of  the  tribes  of  Germany  and  Scythia."— Decline  and 
Full  of  the  Raman  Empire,  vol.  v.  p.  311. 

NOTE  3. 

With  rich  libationi  duly  ihed, 

The  plane-tree  was  much  cultivated  amon?  the  Romans,  on  ac- 
unt  of  its  extraordinary  shaoe;  and  they  used  to  nourish  it  with 
ine  instead  of  water,  believing  (as  Sir  W.  Temple  observesj  that 
Th's  tree  loved  that  liqu  >r  as  well  as  those  who  used  to  drink  un- 
ler  its  shade."— &e  the  notet  to  MtlmolKs  Pliny. 

NOTE  4. 

Soon  thaU  the  itle  of  Cera  toeep. 

Sicily  wan  anciently  considered  as  the  fivoure/1  and  peculiar  do- 
Minion  of  Ceres. 


WIFE  OF  ASDRUBAL. 


"This  governor,  who  had  braved  death  when  it  WM  at 
a  distance,  and  protested  that  the  sun  should  never 
see  him  survive  Carthage,  this  fierce  Asdrubal,  wai 
•c  mean-spirited,  as  to  come  alone,  and  privately 
throw  himself  at  the  conqueror's  (eel.  The  general, 
pleased  to  see  his  proud  rival  humbled,  granted  hii 
life  and  kept  him  to  grace  his  triumph.  The  Cartha- 
ginians in  the  citadel  no  sooner  understood  that  their 
commander  had  abandoned  the  place,  than  they 
threw  open  the  gates,  and  put  the  proconsul  in  pos- 
session of  Byrea.  The  Romans  had  now  no  enemy 
to  contend  with  but  the  nine  hundred  deserters,  who, 
being  reduced  to  despair,  retired  into  the  temple  Oi 
Esculapius,  which  was  a  second  citadel  within  the 
first ;  there  the  proconsul  attacked  them;  anrl  these  un- 
happy wretches,  finding  there  was  no  way  to  escape, 
eet  fire  to  the  temple.  As  the  flames  spread,  they  re- 
treated frnm  one  part  to  another,  till  they  got  to  the 
roof  of  the  building  ;  there  Asdruhal's  wife  ap- 
peared in  her  best  apparel,  as  if  the  day  of  her  death 
had  been  a  day  of  triumph  ;  and  after  having  uttered 
the  most  bitter  imprecations  against  her  husband, 
whom  she  saw  standing  below  with  Emilianus, 
—  'Base  coward  !'  said  she,  'the  mean  things  thou 
hnst  done  tn  save  thy  life  shall  not  avail  thee :  thou 
(halt  die  this  instant,  at  least  in  thy  two  children.' 
Having  thus  spoken,  she  drew  out  a  dagger,  stabbed 
them  both,  and  while  they  were  yet  struggling  for 
life,  threw  them  from  the  top  of  the  temple,  and  leaped 
down  after  them  into  the  flames."— Ancient  L'niver- 
lal  History. 


THE  sun  sets  brightly— but  a  ruddier  glow 
O'er  Afric's  heaven  the  flames  of  Carthage  throw 
Her  walls  have  sunk,  and  pyramids  of  fire 
In  lurid  splendour  from  her  domes  aspire  ; 


Sway  VI  by  the  wind,  they  wave — while  glares  th« 

'  sky. 

As  when  the  desert's  red  Simoom  is  nigh  : 
The  sculptured  altar,  and  the  pillar'd  hall. 
Shine  out  in  dreadful  brightness  ere  they  fall; 
Far  o'er  the  seas  the  light  of  ruin  streams, 
Rock,  wave,  and  isle  are  crimson'd  by  its  beams; 
While  captive  thousands,  bound  in  Roman  chains, 
Gaze  in  mute  horror  on  their  burning  fanes; 
And  shouts  of  triumph,  echoing  far  around, 
Swell  from  the  victor's  tents  with  ivy  crown'd.* 
But  mark  from  yon  fair  temple's  loftiest  height 
What  towering  form  bursts  wildly  on  the  sight, 
All  regal  in  magnificent  attire. 
And  sternly  beauteous  in  terrific  ire? 
She  might  be  deem'd  a  Pythia  in  the  hour 
Of  dread  communion  and  delirious  power! 
A  being  more  than  earthly,  in  whose  eye 
There  dwells  a  strange  and  fierce  ascendency. 
The  flames  are  gathering  round—  intensely  bright 
Full  on  her  features  glares  their  meteor-light, 
Rut  a  wild  couraee  sits  triumphant  there, 
The  stormy  grandeur  of  a  proud  despair; 
A  ilaring  spirit,  in  its  wors  elate, 
Mighti  r  than  death,  imtamo.ible  by  fate; 
The  dark  profusion  of  her  locks  unbound, 
Waves  lik"  a  warrior's  floating  plumage  round; 
Flufh'd  is>  h  r  cheek,  inspired  her  haughty  mien, 
She  seems  the  avenging  goddess  of  the  scene. 

Are  those  her  i.it'a  Ms,  that  with  suppliant  cry. 
Cling  round  Iier,  shrinking  as  llir  rlanu-  draws  nig ii 
Clasp  with  their  feeble  hands  hrr  gorgeous  vest, 
And  fain  would  rush  for  shelter  to  her  breast  ? 
Is  that  a  mother's  glance,  where  stern  disdain, 
And  passion  awfully  vindictive,  reign  ? 

Fix'd  is  her  eye  on  Asdrubal,  who  stands. 
Ignobly  safe,  amidst  the  conquering  bands; 
On  him  who  left  her  to  that  burning  tomb, 
Alone  to  share  her  cliil>. run's  martyrdom; 
Who,  when  his  countiy  prrish'd,  tied  the  strife, 
And  knelt  to  win  the  worthless  boon  of  life. 
"Live,  traitor,  live!"  she  cries,  "since  dear  to 

thee. 

E'en  in  tliy  fetters,  can  existence  be  ! 
Scorn'd  and  dishonour'd  live  ! — with  hla?ted  name, 
The  Roman's  triumph  not  to  grace,  i>  .t  shame. 
O  slave  in  spirit !  bitter  be  thy  chain. 
With  tenfold  anguish  to  avenge  my  pain  ! 
Still  may  the  manes  of  thy  children  rise 
To  chase  calm  slumber  from  thy  wearied  eyes; 
Still  may  their  voices  on  the  haunted  air 
In  fearful  whispers  tell  thee  to  despair, 
Till  vain  remorse  thy  wither'd  heart  consume, 
Scourged  by  relentless  shadows  of  the  tomb! 
E'en  now  my  sons  shall  die— and  thou,  their  sire, 
In  bondage  safe,  shall  yet  in  them  expire. 
Think'st  thou  I  love  them  not?— 'T  was  thine  to 

fly- 

'Tis  mine  with  these  to  suffer  and  to  die. 
Behold  their  fate!  the  arms  that  cannot  save 
Have  been  their  cradle,  and  shall  be  their  grave." 

Bright  in  her  hand  the  lifted  dagger  gleams. 
Swift   from   her  children's  hearts   the   life-bloc.. 

streams; 

With  frantic  laugh  she  clasps  them  to  her  breast, 
Whose  woes  and  passions  soon  shall  be  at  rest; 
Lifts  one  appealing,  frenzied  glance  on  high, 
Then  deep  'midst  rolling  flames  is  lost  to  mortt 

eyt. 

*  It  was  a  Roman  custom  to  adorn  the  tent*  of  victors  with  >»T 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


in  the  ^Temple. 


From  Maccabees,  book  2.  chapter  iii.  21.  "Then  it 
would  have  pitied  a  man  to  see  the  falling-down  of 
the  multitude  of  all  sorts,  and  the  fear  of  the  high- 
priest,  being  in  such  an  agony  — 22.  They  then  called 
upon  the  Almighty  Lord  to  keep  the  things  committed 
of  trust  safe  and  pure,  for  those  that  had  committed 
them.  —  23.  Nevertheless.  Heliodorus  executed  that 
which  was  decreed.  —  24.  Now  as  he  wag  there  pre- 
sent himself  with  his  i/uard  about  the  treasury,  the 
Lord  of  Spirits, 'and  the  Prince  of  all  Power,  caused  a 
great  apparition,  so  that  all  that  presumed  to  come  in 
in  with  him  were  astonished  at  the  power  of  God, 
and  fa.nted,  and  were  sore  afraid. — 25.  For  there 
appeared  unto  them  a  horse  with  a  terrible  rider 
upon  him.  and  adorned  with  a  very  fair  covering,  and 
he  ran  fiercely,  and  smote  at  Httliodorus  with  hut  fore- 
feet, and  it  seemed  that  he  that  sat  upon  the  horse  had 
a  complete  harness  of  gold.— 2ti.  Moreover,  two  other 
young  men  appeared  lietbre  him,  notable  in  strength, 
excellent  in  beauty,  and  comely  in  apparel,  who  stood 
by  him  on  either  side,  and  scourged  him  continually, 
and  gave  him  many  sore  stripes. — 27.  And  Heliodo- 
rus  fell  suddenly  to  the  ground,  and  was  compassed 
with  great  darkness ;  but  they  that  were  with  him 
took  him  up  and  put  him  into  a  litter. — 28.  Thus  him 
that  lately  came  with  great  train,  and  with  all  his 
guard  into  the  said  treasury,  they  carried  out,  being 
unable  to  help  himself  with  his  weapons,  and  mani- 
festly they  acknowledged  the  power  of  God. — 29. 
For  he  by  the  hand  of  God  was  cast  down,  and  lay 
speechless,  without  all  hope  of  life." 


A  SOUND  of  woe  in  Salem!  mournful  cries 
Rose  from  her  dwellings — youthful  cheeks  were 
pale. 

Tears  flowing  fast  from  dim  and  aged   eyes, 
And  voices  mingling  in  tumultuous  wail ; 

Hands  raised  to  heaven  in  agony  of  prayer, 

And  powerless  wrath,  and  terror,  and  despair. 

Thy  (laughters.  Judah!  weeping,  laid  aside 
The  regal  splendour  of  their  fair  array. 

With  the  rude  sackcloth  girt  their  beauty's  pride, 
And  throng'd  the  streets  in  hurrying,  wild  dis 
may  ; 

While  knelt  thy  priests  before  Ms  awful  shrine, 

Who  made,  of  old,  renown  and  empire  thine. 

But  on  the  spoiler  moves— the  temple's  gate, 
The  bright,  the  beautiful,  his  guards  unfold 

And  all  the  scene  reveals  its  solemn  state, 
Its  courts  and  pillars,  rich  with  sculptured  gold , 

And  rrsn,  with  eye  unhallow'd,  views  th'  abode. 

The  serer'd  spot,  the  dwelling  place  of  God. 

Where  art  thou.  Mighty  Presence!  that  of  yore 
Wert  wont  between  the  cherubim  to  rest, 

Veil'd  in  a  cloud  of  glory,  shadowing  o'er 
Thy  sanctuary  the  chosen  and  the  hlest? 

Thou!  I  hat  didst  make  fair  Sion's  ark  thy  throne, 

And  call  the  oracle's  recess  thine  own  ! 

Angel  of  God!  that  through  th'  Assyrian  host. 
Clothed  with  the  darkness  of  the  midnight  hour. 

To  tariif  the  proud,  to  hush  th'  invader's  boast, 
Didst  pass  triumphant  in  avengirie  power. 

Till  hur?t  the  day-sprins  on  the  silent  scene. 

And  death  alone  reveal'd  where  thou  hadst  hoen 

ilt  thou  not  wake,  O  Chastener  !  in  thy  might, 
To  guard  thine  ancient  and  majestic  hill. 

Where  oft  froin  heaven  the  full  Shechinah's  light 
Hath  stream'd,  the  house  of  holiness  to  fill  ? 

Oh!  yet  once  more  di/fcnd  thy  loved  domain, 

Eternal  one!  Delivfrer!  rise  again 


Fearless  of  thee,  the  plunderer,  undismay'd, 
Hastes  on,  the  sacred  chambers  to  explore 

Where  the  bright  treasures  of  the  fane  are  laid, 
The  orphan's  portion,  and  the  widow's  store; 

What  recks  Ais  heart  though  age  unsuccour'd  die 

And  want  consume  the  cheek  of  infancy? 

Away,  intruders  ! — hark  !  a  mighty  sound  1 
Behold  a  burst  of  light !— away,  away  1 

A  fearful  glory  fills  the  temple  round, 
A  vision  bright  in  terrible  array  1 

And  lo !  a  steed  of  no  terrestrial  frame, 

His  path  a  whirlwind,  and  his  breath  a  flame! 

His  neck  is  clothed  with  thunder*— and  his  nmnr 
Seems  waving  fire — the  kindling  of  his  eye 

Is  as  a  meteor — ardent  with  disdain 
His  glance — his  gesture,  fierce  in  majesty! 

Instinct  with  liehl  he  seems,  and  form'd  to  hear 

Some  dread  archangel  through  the  fields  of  air. 

But  who  is  he,  in  panoply  of  gold, 

Throned  on  that  burning  cimrger  ?— bright  hi 

form, 
Yet  in  its  brightness  awful  to  behold, 

And  girt  with  all  the  terrors  of  the  storm ! 
Lightning  is  on  his  helmet's  crest — and  fear 
Shrinks  from  the  splendour  of  his  brow  severe. 

And  by  his  side  two  radiant  warriors  stand 
All  arm'd  and  kingly  in  commanding  grace — 

Oh  !  more  than  kingly,  godlike!  sternly  grand  ! 
Their  port  indignant,  and  each  dazzling  face 

Beams  with  the  beauty  to  immortals  given, 

Magnificent  in  all  the  wrath  of  heaven. 

Then  sinks  each  gazer's  heart — each  knee  is  bow'd 
In  trembling  awe— but,  as  to  fields  of  fight, 

Th'    unearthly  war-steed,    rushing   through    the 

crowd. 
Bursts  on  their  leader  with  terrific  might; 

And  the  stern  angels  of  that  dread  abode 

Pursue  its  plunderer  with  the  scourge  of  God. 

Darkness — thick  darkness!  low  on  earth  he  lies,- 
Rash  Heliodorus — motionless  and  p,tle — 

Bloodless  his  cheek,  and  o'er  his  shrouded  eyes 
Mists,  as  of  death,  s  ispend  their  shadowy  veil: 

And  thus  th'  oppressor,  by  his  fear-struck  train. 

Is  borne  from  that  inviolable  fane. 

The  light  returns — the  warriors  of  the  sky 

Have  pass'd,  with  all  theirdreadful  pomp,  away; 

Then  wakes  the  timbrel,  swells  the  song  on  high 
Triumphant,  as  in  Judah's  elder  day  ; 

Rejoice,  O  city  of  the  sacred  hill ! 

Salem,  exult  1  thy  God  is  with  thee  still. 


NIGHT-SCENE  IN  GENOA 


[From  Siemondfs  "  Repu.bliqncs  ftaliennet  "J 
En  meme  temps  que  lea  Genois  poursuivoient  avec  ar 
deur  la  guerre  centre  Pise  ils  etoient  dechires  eux- 
memes  par  une  diseorde  civile.  Le«  consuls  de  Tan- 
nee  1169,  pour  etablir  la  paix  dans  leur  patrie  au 
milieu  des  factions  gourdes  a  leur  voix  et  plus  puis 
sanies  qu'  eux,  furent  obliges  d'ourdir  en  quelque 
sorte  une  conspiration.  Ils  commencerent  pars'assu 
rer  secretement  des  dispositions  pacifiques  de  plusieurs 
des  citoyens,  qui  cependant  etoient  entraines  dang  les 
emeutes  par  leur  parente  avec  les  chefs  de  faction ; 
puis.  se  concertant  avee  le  venerable  vieillard,  Hugues,  * 
leur  archeveque,  ils  firent,  long-temps  avant  le  lever  du 
solid,  nppelerau  son  des  cloches  les  citoyens  au  parle- 


'•  Hant  ilmn  e;  vf  n  >he  horre  strength  ?  Hut  thou  clothed  hi§  i 
i'h  Ihnntfer  '•''—Job,  xxxix.  19. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


eette  convocation  inattendue,  au  milieu  de  I'obacu- 
rite  de  la  nuit  rendroit  I'assemblee  et  plus  complete  el 
plus  docile.  Lea  citoyens,  en  aecourant  au  parlement 
general,  virent,  au  milieu  de  la  place  puhlique.  le  vieil 
archeveque,  entourede  son  clergeen  habit  de  ceremo- 
nies, et  portant  des  torches  allumees,  tandig  que  les  re- 
liques  de  Saint  Jean  Baptiste,  le  protecteur  de  Genes, 
etoient  exposees  devant  lui,  et  que  les  citoyens  leg 
plug  respectables  portoient  a  leurs  mains  des  croix  sup- 
pliantes.  Des  que  1'assemblee  fut  formee,  le  vieillard  se 
leva,  et  de  sa  voix  cassee  il  con  jura  les  chefs  ile  parti, 
au  nom  du  Dieu  de  paix  au  nom  du  salut  de  leure 
ames.  au  nom  de  leur  patrie  et  de  la  liberte,  dont  leurs 
discordes  entrnineroient  la  ruine,  de  jurer  sur  1'evan- 
gile  1'oubli  de  leure  querelleg,  et  la  paix  a  venir. 

'  Les  herauts,  des  qu'il  eut  fini  de  parler,  s'avancerenl 
aussitot  vera  Roland  Avogado,  le  cbef  de  1'une  des 
factions,  qui  etoit  present  a  1'assemblce,  et,  secondes 
par  les  acclamations  de  tout  le  peuple,  et  par  les  pri- 
eres  de  ses  parens  eux-memes,  ils  le  gommerent  de  se 
conformer  au  voeu  des  consuls  et  de  la  nation. 

"  Roland,  a  leur  approche,  dechira  ses  habits,  et,  s'asse- 
yant  par  terre  en  versant  des  larmes,  il  appela  a  haute 
voix  les  morU  qu'il  avoit  jure  de  venger,  et  qui  ne  lui 
permettoient  pas  de  pardonner  leurs  vieilles  offenses. 
Comme  on  ne  pouvoit  le  determiner  a  s'avancer,  les 
consuls  eux-memes,  I'archeveque  et  le  clerge  g'np- 
procherent  de  lui,  et,  renouvelant  leurs  prieres,  ils 
1'entrainerent  enfin,  et  lui  firent  jurer  sur  1'evangile 
1'oubli  de  ses  inimities  passees. 

*  Les  chefs  du  parti  contraire,  Foulques  de  Castro,  et 
Ingo  de  Volta,  n'etuient  pas  presens  a  1'assemblee, 
tnais  le  peuple  et  le  clerge  se  porterent  en  foule  a 
leurs  maisons ;  ils  les  trouverent  deja  enranle*  par  ce 
qu'ils  venoient  d'apprendre,  et,  profitant  de  leur  emo- 
tion, ils  leur  firent  jurer  une  reconciliation  sincere,  et 
donner  le  baiser  de  paix  aux  chefs  de  la  faction  oppo- 
gee.  AloYs  les  cloches  de  )a  ville  sonnerent  en  to- 
moignge  d' allegresf  e,  et  P»rch»VPqtw  do  rofnnr  gur 
la  place  publique  entonna  un  To  Devm  avec  toute  le 
peuple,  en  honneur  du  Dieu  de  paix  qui  avoit  sauve 
jeur  patrie." — Uistoire  dc3  Republiquet  Italiexnet 
rol.  ii.  p.  149—150. 


NIGHT-SCENE  IN  GENOA. 


IN  Genoa,  when  the  sunset  eavo 
Its  last  warm  purple  to  the  wave, 
No  sound  of  war,  no  voice  of  fear. 
Was  heard,  announcing  danger  near: 
Though  deadliest  foes  were  there,  whose  hate 
But  slumber'd  till  its  hour  of  fate, 
Yet  calmly,  at  the  twilight's  close. 
Sunk  the  wide  city  to  repose. 

But  when  deep  midnight  reign'd  around, 
All  sudden  woke  the  alnnu-b  ll's  sound, 
Full  swelling,  while  the  hollow  breeze 
Bore  its  dread  summons  o'er  the  seas. 
Then,  Genoa,  from  their  slumber  started 
Thy  sons,  the  free,  the  fearless-hearted; 
Then  mingled  with  th'  awakening  peal 
Voices,  and  steps,  and  clash  of  steel. 
"  Arm,  warriors,  arm  !  for  danger  calls: 
Arise  to  guard  your  native  walls!" 
With  breathless  haste  the  gathering  throng 
Hurry  the  echoing  streets  along; 
Throiish  darkness  rushing  to  the  scene 
Where  their  bold  councils  still  convene. 
—  But  there  a  blaze  of  torches  bright 
Pours  its  red  radiance  on  the  night, 
o'er  fane,  and  dome,  and  column  playing, 
With  every  fitful  night-wind  swaying. 
Now  Moating  o'er  each  tall  arcade. 
Around  the  pillar'd  scene  display'd, 
In  light  reveal'd  by  depth  of  shade ; 
And  now,  with  ruddy  meteor-glare. 
Full  streaming  on  the  silvery  hair 
And  the  bright  cross  of  him  who  stands. 
Rearing  that  sign  with  suppliant  hands. 


Girt  with  his  consecrated  train, 
The  hallow'd  servants  of  the  fane. 
Of  life's  past  woes  the  fading  trace 
Hath  given  that  aeed  patriarch's  face 
Expression  holy,  deep,  resign'd, 
The  calm  sublimity  of  mind. 
Years  o'er  hi*  snowy  head  had  pass'd, 
And  left  him  of  his  race  the  last ; 
Alone  on  earth— yet  still  his  mien 
Is  bright  with  majesty  serene; 
And  those  high  hopes,  whose  guiding-star 
Shines  from  th'  eternal  worlds  afar, 
Have  with  that  lisht  illumed  his  eye, 
Whose  fount  is  immortality. 
And  o'er  his  features  pour'd  a  ray 
Of  glory,  not  to  pass  away. 
He  seems  a  being  who  hath  known 
Communion  with  his  God  alone, 
On  earth  hy  naught  but  pity's  tie 
Detain'd  a  moment  from  on  high! 
One  to  sublimer  worlds  allied. 
One,  from  all  passion  purified. 
E'en  now  half  mingled  with  the  sky, 
And  all  prepared— oh!  not  to  die- 
But  like  the  prophet,  to  aspire. 
In  heaven's  triumphal  car  of  fire. 
He  speaks— and  from  the  throngs  around 
Is  heard  not  e'en  a  whisppr'd  sound  ; 
Awe-struck  each  heart,  and  fix'd  each  glanet 
They  stand  as  in  a  spell-bound  trance; 
He  speaks — oh  !  who  can  hear  nor  own 
The  might  of  each  prevailing  tone? 

"Chieftains  and  warriors!  ye,  so  long 
Aroused  to  strife  by  mutual  wrong. 
Whose  fierce  and  far-transmitted  hate 
Hath  made  your  country  desolate; 
Now  by  the  love  ye  bear  her  name. 
By  that  pure  spark  of  holy  flame 
On  freedom's  altar  brightly  burning, 
But.  once  extinguished— ne'er  returning; 
By  all  your  hopes  of  bliss  to  come 
When  burst  the  bondage  of  the  tomb; 
By  Him,  the  God  who  bade  us  live 
To  aid  each  other  and  forgi've ; 
I  call  upon  ye  to  resign 
Your  discords  at  your  country's  shrine, 
Each  ancient  feud  in  peace  atone, 
Wiekl  your  keen  swords  for  her  alone. 
And  swear  upon  the  cross  to  cast 
Oblivion's  mantle  o'er  the  past." 

No  voice  replies— the  holy  bands 
Advance  to  where  yon  chieftain  stands, 
With  folded  arms  and  brow  of  gloom 
O'ershadow'd  by  his  floating  plume. 
To  him  they  lift  the  cross— in  vain. 
He  turns— oh  !  say  not  with  disdain, 
But  with  a  mien  of  haughty  grief. 
That  seeks  not  e'en  from  heaven  relief, 
He  rends  bis  robes—  he  sternly  speaks — 
Yet  tears  are  on  the  warrior's  cheeks. 

"  Father '  not  thus  the  wounds  may  C!OM 
Indicted  by  eternal  foes. 
Deem'st  thou  thg  mandate  can  efface 
The  dread  volcano's  burning  trace  ? 
Or  bid  the  earthquake's  ravaged  scene 
Be  smiling,  as  it  once  hath  beenl 
No!— for  the  deeds  the  sword  hath  done 
Forgiveness  is  not  lightly  won  ; 
The  words,  by  hatred  spoke,  may  not 
Be,  as  a  summer  breeze,  forgot  1 
'Tis  vain— we  deem  the  war-feud's  rage 
A  portion  of  our  heritage. 
Leaders,  now  slumbering  with  their  fame 
Bequeath'd  us  that  undying  flnme; 
Hearts  that  have  long  been  still  and  COM 
Yet  rule  us  from  their  silent  mould. 
And  voices,  heard  on  earth  no  more, 
Speak  to  our  spirits  as  of  yore. 
Talk  not  of  mercy— blood  alone 
The  stain  of  bloodshed  may  atone; 
Naught  else  can  pay  that  mighty  debt 
The  dead  forbid  us  to  forget." 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


53 


He  pauses — from  the  patriarch's  brow 
There  beams  more  lofty  grandeur  now ; 
His  reverend  form,  his  aged  hand. 
Assume  a  gesture  of  command. 
His  voice  is  awful,  and  his  eye 
Fill'd  with  prophetic  majesty. 

"  The  dead! — and  deem'st  tliou  t/iey  retain 
Aught  of  terrestrial  passion's  stain  I 
Of  guilt  incurr'd  in  days  pone  by. 
Aught  but  the  fearful  penalty? 
And  say'st  thou,  mortal!  blood  alone 
For  deeds  of  slaughter  may  atone  ? 
There  hath  been  blood—  by  FIIM  't  was  shed 
To  expiate  every  crime  who  bled ; 
Th'  absolving  GoJ  \vho  died  to  save, 
And  rose  in  victory  from  the  gravel 
And  by  that  stainless  offering  given 
Alike  from  all  on  earth  to  heaven  ; 
Bv  that  inevitable  hour 
When  death  shall  vanquish  pride  and  power, 
And  each  departing  passion's  force 
Concentrate  all  in  late  remorse: 
And  by  the  day  when  doom  shall  be 
Pass'd  on  earth's  millions,  and  on  thee. 
The  doom  that  shall  not  be  repeal'd, 
Once  utter'd  and  for  ever  seal'd; 
I  summon  thee.  O  child  of  clay! 
To  cast  thy  darker  thoughts  away, 
And  meet  thy  foes  in  peace  and  love, 
As  thou  wouldst  join  the  blest  above." 

Still  as  he  speaks  unwonted  feeling 
Is  o'er  the  chieftain's  bosom  stealing  ; 
Oh!  not  in  vain  the  pleading  cries 
Of  anxious  thousands  round  him  rise. 
He  yields — devotion's  minplcd  sense 
Of  faith,  and  fear,  and  penitence, 
Pervading  all  his  soul,  lie  bows 
To  offer  on  the  cross  his  vows. 
And  that  best  incense  to  the  skiei 
Bach  evil  passion's  sacrifice. 

Then  tears  from  warriors'  eyes  were  flowing. 
High  hrarts  with  soft  emotions  glowing. 
Stern  foes  as  long-loved  brothers  greeting, 
And  ardent  throngs  in  transport  meeting, 
And  eager  footsteps  forward  pressing, 
And  accents  loud  in  joyous  blessing; 
And  when  their  first  wild  tumults  cease, 
A  thousand  voices  echo  "  Peace!" 

Twilight's  dim  mist  hath  roll'd  away, 
And  the  rich  Orient  burns  with  day; 
Then  as  to  greet  the  sunbeam's  birth, 
Hi  see  the  choral  hymn  of  earth ; 
Th'  exulting  strain  through  Genoa  swelling, 
Of  peace  and  holy  rapture  telling. 
Far  float  the  sounds  o'er  vale  and  steep. 
The  sunbeam  hears  them  on  the  deep, 
So  mellow'd  by  the  pale  they  seem 
As  the  wild  music  of  a  dream ; 
But  not  on  mortal  ear  alone 
Feals  the  triumphant  anthem's  tone, 
For  beings  of  a  purer  sphere 
tond  with  celestial  joy  to  hear. 


THE  TROUBADOUR 

AMD 

RICHARD  CCEUR  DE  LION. 


1  Not  only  the  place  of  Richard's  confinement"  (when 
thrown  into  prison  by  the  l)uke  of  Austria.)  if  we  be- 
lieve the  literary  history  of  the  times,  but  even  the 
circumstance  of  his  captivity,  was  carefully  concealed 
by  his  vindictive  enemies:  and  both  might  have  re- 
mained unknown  but  for  ibe  grateful  attachment  of 
a  Provencal  bard,  or  minstrel,  named  Blondel,  who 
had  shared  that  prince's  friendship  and  tasted  his 
bounty.  Having  travelled  over  all  the  European  con- 
tinent to  learn  the  destiny  of  his  beloved  patron, 
Blondel  accidentally  got  intelligence  of  a  certain  ens- 
ile in  Germany,  where  a  prisoner  of  distinction  w»« 
confined  and  guarded  with  great  vigilance.  Per- 
suaded by  a  secret  impulse  that  this  prisoner  was  the 
King  of  England,  tlie  minstrel  repaired  to  the  place ; 
but  the  gates  of  the  castle  were  shut  against  him. 
and  he  could  obtain  no  information  relative  to  the 
name  or  quality  of  the  unhappy  person  it  secured. 
In  this  extremity,  he  bethought  himself  of  an  expedient 
for  making  the  desired  discovery.  He  chanted  with  a 
loud  voice,  gome  verses  of  a  song  which  had  been 
composed  partly  by  himself,  partly  by  Richard:  and, 
to  his  unspeakable  joy,  on  making  a  pause,  he  heard 
it  re-echoed,  and  continued  by  the  royal  captive."— 
(Hist.  Troubailaurs.)  To  this  discovery  the  Enelisb 
monarch  is  said  to  have  eventually  owed  hie  re- 
lease,.' ' — See  Russell's  Modern  Europe,  vol.  i.  p.  369. 


THE  Troubadour  o'er  many  a  plain 
Hath  roam'd  unwearied,  but  in  vain. 
O'er  many  a  rugged  mountain-scene, 
And  forest  wild,  his  track  hath  been  ; 
Beneath  Calabria's  glowing  sky 
He  hath  sung  the  song  of  chivalry, 
His  voice  hath  swell'd  on  the  Alpine  b'eeze- 
And  rung  through  the  snowy  Pyrenees ; 
From  Ebro's  banks  to  Danube's   wave 
He  hath  sought  his  prince,  the  loved,  the  brav* 
And  yet,  if  still  on  earth  thou  art, 
O  monarch  of  the  lion-heart! 
The  faithful  spirit,  wliich  distress 
But  heightens  to  devotedness, 
By  toil  and  trial  vanquished  not. 
Shall  guide  thy  minstrel  to  th--  .pot. 

He  hath  reach'd  a  mountain  hung  with  vine 
And  woods  that  wave  o'er  tl<    lovely  Rhine; 
The  feudal  towers  that  crest   Is  height 
Frown  in  unconquerable  mi,  J.t ; 
Dark  is  their  aspect  of  sullc  i  sta'.e, 
No  helmet  hangs  o'er  the  m&ssy  ^ate(i) 
To  bid  the  wearied  pilgrim  lest, 
At  the  chieftain's  board  a  welcome  guest ; 
Vainly  rich  evening's  parting  smile 
Would  chase  the  gloom  of  the  haughty  pile. 
That  'midst  bright  sunshine  lowers  or  high, 
Like  a  thundercloud  in  a  summer-sky. 

Not  these  the  halls  where  a  child  of  song 
Awhile  may  speed  the  hours  along. 
Their  echoes  should  repeat  alone 
The  tyrant's  mandate,  the  prison'  r  6  moan, 
Or  the  wild  huntsman's  bugle-bl »«' 
When  his  phantom-train  are  burning  past  (21 


54 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  weary  minstrel  paused— his  eye 

Roved  o'er  the  scene  despondingly  : 

Within  the  lengthening  shadow  cast 

By  the  fortress-towers  and  ramparts  vast, 

Lingering  he  gazed — the  rocks  around 

Sublime  in  savage  grandeur  frown'd  ; 

Proud  guardians  of  the  regal  flood, 

In  giant  strength  the  mountains  stood; 

By  torrents  cleft,  hy  tempests  riven. 

Yet  mingling  with  the  calm  blue  heaven. 

Their  peaks  were  bright  with  a  sunny  glow, 

But  the  Rhine  all  shadowy  roll'd  below  ; 

In  purple  lints  the  vineyards  smiled. 

But  the  woods  beyond  waved  dark  and  wild 

Nor  pastoral  pipe,  nor  convent's  bell, 

Was  heard  on  the  sighing  breeze  to  swell, 

But  all  was  lonely,  silent,  rude, 

A  stern,  yet  glorious  solitude. 

But  hark!  that  solemn  stillness  breaking, 
The  Troubadour's  wild  song  is  waking. 
Full  oft  that  song,  in  days  gone  by. 
Hath  cheer'd  the  sons  of  chivalry  ; 
It  hath  swell'd  o'er  Judah's  mountains  lone, 
Hermon  !  thy  echoes  have  learn'd  its  tone ; 
On  the  Great  Plain  (3)  its  notes  have  rung, 
The  leagued  Crusaders'  tents  among  ; 
'T  was  loved  by  the  Lion-heart,  who  won 
The  palm  in  the  field  of  Ascalon  ; 
And  now  afar  o'er  the  rocks  of  Rhine 
Peals  the  bold  strain  of  Palestine. 

THE  TROUBADOUR'S  SONG. 

"  Thine  hour  is  come,  and  the  stake  is  set," 
The  soldan  cried  to  the  captive  knight, 

"  And  the  sons  of  the  Prophet  in  throngs  are  met 
To  gaze  on  the  fearful  sight. 

"  But  be  our  faith  by  thy  lips  professM, 

The  faith  of  Mecca's  shrine, 
Cast  down  the  red-cross  that  marks  thy  vert, 

And  life  shall  yet  be  thine  " 

'  I  have  seen  the  flow  of  my  bosom's  blood. 

And  gazed  with  undaunted  eye; 
I  have  borne  the  bright  cross  through  fire  and  flood, 
And  think'st  thou  I  fear  to  die? 

'•  1  have  stood  where  thousands  by  Salem's  tower*, 

Have  fallen  for  the  name  divine  ; 
And  the  faith  that  cheer'd  their  closing  hours 

Shall  be  the  light  of  mine." 

"  Thus  wilt  thou  die  in  the  pride  of  health, 
And  the  glow  of  youth's  fresh  bloom  ? 

Thou  art  offer'd  life,  and  pomp,  and  wealth, 
Or  torture  and  the  tomb." 

"  Ihavebeen  where  thecrown  of  thorns  was  twined 

For  a  dying  Saviour's  brow  ; 
He  spurn'd  the  treasures  that  lure  mankind, 

And  I  reject  them  now  ! 

"  Art  thou  the  son  of  a  noble  line 

In  a  land  that  is  fair  and  blest  ? 
And  doth  not  thy  spirit,  proud  captive !  pine, 

Again  on  its  shores  to  rest? 

Thine  own  is  the  choice  to  hail  once  more 

The  soil  of  thy  fathers'  birth. 
Or  to  sleep  when  thy  lingering  pangs  are  o'er. 
Forgotten  in  foreign  earth." 

'  Oh    fair  are  the  vine-clad  hills  that  rise 

In  the  country  of  my  love; 
But  yet  though  cloudless  my  native  skies, 

There's  a  brighter  clime  above  V 


The  bard  hath  paused — for  another  tone 
Blends  with  the  music  of  his  own  ; 
And  his  heart  beats  high  with  hope  again, 
As  a  well-known  voice  prolongs  the  strain. 

'Are  there  none  within  thy  father's  hall, 

Far  o'er  the  wide  blue  main. 
Young  Christian  !  lr:ft  to  deplore  thy  fall, 
With  sorrow  deep  and  vain  ?" 

"There  are  hearts  that  still,  through  all  the  past 
Unchanging  have  loved  me  well ; 

There  are  eyes  whose  tears  were  streaming  fast 
When  I  bade  my  home  farewell. 

"  Better  they  wept  o'er  the  warrior's  bier 

Than  th'  apostate's  living  stain; 
There's  a  land  where  those  who  loved,  when  here, 

Shall  meet  to  love  again." 

'Tis  he !  thy  prince— long  sought,  long  lost, 
The  leader  of  the  red-cross  host ! 
'Tis  he  ! — to  none  thy  joy  betray. 
Young  Troubadour !  away,  away! 
Away  to  the  island  of  the  brave, 
The  gem  on  the  bosom  of  the  wave,  (4) 
Arouse  the  sons  of  the  noble  soil. 
To  win  their  lion  from  the  toil ; 
And  free  the  wassail-cup  shall  flow, 
Bright  in  each  hall  the  hearth  shall  glow; 
The  festal  board  shall  be  richly  crown'd. 
While  knights  and  chieftains  revel  round, 
And  a  thousand  harps  with  joy  shall  ring. 
When  merry  England  hails  her  king. 


NOTES. 

NOTE  1. 

So  Mmtt  Hanfi  o'er  the  masfy  gate. 

It  was  a  custom  in  feudal  times  lo  hang  out  a  helmet  on  acastta, 
«»  a  token  that  strangers  were  invited  to  enter,  and  partake  of  hospi- 
tality. So  in  the  romance  of  '  Perceforest,'  "  11s  fasoient  mettre  au 
plus  hault  de  leur  hostel  un  htaulme,  en  signe  qne  tons  les  gentill 
homines  et  gentilles  femmes  entranent  hardimeiit  ei  leur  hostel 
comnie  en  leor  propre." 

NOTE  2. 

Or  thi  wild  huntttiifin's  bu^le-blast, 

When  hit  phan'oni-train  art  tiurriiing  pait. 

Popular  tradition  has  made  several  mountains  in  Germany  the 

haunt  of  the  wild  Jagfr.  or  supernatural  huntsman—  the  superstitious. 

tales  relating  to  the  Unterbunr  are  recorded  in  Eustace's  Classical 

Tour;  aud  it  is  still  believed  in  tlie  romantic  district  of  the  ("Men. 

wald,  that  the  knight  of  Rodenstem,  issuing  from  his  ruined  castle, 

Esuouncee  the  approach  of  war  by  traversi»g  the  air  with  a  uoisy 

armament  to  the  opposite  castle  of  Schuellerts.—  See  the  Manud 

fottr  let  Koyoffeur*  rar  le  Xhin,  and  Jii*luum  on  the  Xhiru. 


NOTE  3. 
OH  the  Great  Plain  iti  nota  hav 


Great 


The  plain  of  Esdraelon,  called  by  way  of  eminence  the  "Gre 
Plain  ;"  in  Scripture,  and  elsewhere,  the  "  Field  of  Megiddo,  '  t 
"  Galilean  Plain."  This  plain,  the  most  fertile  of  all  the  land  of  C 
naan,  has  been  the  scene  of  many  a  memorable  contest  in  the  firs! 
ages  of  Jewish  tratory,  as  well  as  during  the  Roman  empire,  the 
Crusades,  and  even  in  later  times.  It  has  been  a  chosen  place  for 
encampment  in  every  contest  carried  on  in  this  country,  from  the 
days  of  Nabuehodonosor,  king  of  the  Assyrians,  until  the  disastrous 
march  of  Bonaparte  from  Egypt  into  Syria.  Warriors  out  of  "  every 
nation  which  is  under  heaven"  have  pitched  their  tents  upon  the  Plain 
if  Esdraeloa,  and  have  beheld  the  various  banners  of  their  natioBi 
»et  with  the  dews  of  Hermon  and  Thabor.—  Dr.  Clarlx'i  Travels 

NOTE  4. 

The  gem  on  the  botom  of  the  wave. 
"  This  precious  stone  set  in  the  silver  sea." 
VOL  .  I  .—15  Shalutfeart't  KclWffi  II 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


55 


of 


[From  Sismondi's  "Republiques  Italiennct.1'] 
La  defaite  de  Conradin  ne  devoit  mettre  uno  terms 
ni  a  see  malheurs,  ni  aux  vengeances  du  roi  (Charlei 
d'Anjou).  L' amour  du  peuple  pour  1'heritier  legitime 
du  trone,  avoit  eclate  d'une  maniere  clTrayanto;  ilpou- 
voit  causer  de  nouvelles  revolutions,  si  Conradin  du- 
meuruit  en  vie ;  et  Charles,  revetant  sa  defiance  et  sa 
cruaute  des  formes  de  la  justice,  resolut  de  faire  perir 
gur  1'ecbafaud  le  dernier  rejeton  de  la  Muison  do 
Souabe,  1'unique  esperance  de  son  parti.  Un  seul  juge 
Provencal  et  sujet  de  Charles,  dont  lea  historiens  n'onl 
pas  voulu  conserver  le  nom,  osa  voter  pour  la  mort, 
d'autres  se  rentermerent  dans  un  tiniide  et  coupable 
silence;  et  Charles,  sur  1'autorite  de  ce  seul  juge,  fit 
pronouncer,  par  Robert  de  Baii,  protonotaire  du  roy- 
auine,  la  sentence  de  mort  contre  Conradin  et  lous  ses 
compagnong.  Cette  sentence  tut  communiquee  a  Con- 
radin, comme  iljouoitaux  echecs ;  on  lui  laissa  peu 
de  temps  pour  se  preparer  a  eon  execution,  et  le  26 
d'Octobre  il  fut  conduit,  avec  tous  ses  amis,  sur  la 
Place  du  Marche  de  Naples,  le  long  du  rivage  de  la 
mer.  Charles  etoit  present,  avec  tout  sa  cnur,  et  une 
foule  immense  entouroit  le  roi  vainqueuret  le  roi  con- 
damne.  Conradin  etoit  entre  les  mains  des  bourreaux;  il 
detanha  lui  meme  son  manteau,  et  s'etant  mis  a  genoux 
pour  prier,  il  sereleva  en  s'ecriant :  '  Oh,  ma  mere, 
quelle  profonde  douleur  te  causera  la  nbuvelle  <ju  on 
va  te  porter  de  moi !'  Puis  il  tourna  les  yeux  sur  la 
foule  qui  1'entouroit;  il  vit  les  larmes,  it  entendit  leg 
sanglots  de  son  peuple  ;  alors,  detachaut  son  gant,  il 
jeta  au  milieu  de  ses  sujets  ce  gage  d'un  combat  de 
vengeance,  et  rendit  sa  tete  au  bourreau.  Apres  lui, 
sur  le  memeechafaud,  Charles  fit  trancher  la  tete  au 
Due  d'Autriche,  aux  Comtes  Gualferano  et  Barto- 
lommeo  Lancia,  et  aux  Comtes  Geiaid  de  Galvano 
Douoratico  de  Pise.  Par  une  rafinement  de  cruaute, 
Charles  voulut  que  le  premier,  fils  du  second,  precedat 
son  pere,  mourut  entve  ses  bras.  Les  cadavres,  d'apres 
ses  ordres,  furent  exclus  d'une  terre  sainte,  et  inhumes 
eans  pompe  sur  le  rivage  de  la  mer.  Charles  II.  ce- 
pendant  fit  dans  la  suite  batir,  sur  le  meme  lieu,  une 
eglise  de  Carmeliteg,  comme  pour  appaiser  ces  ombres 
irritees." 


No  cloud  to  dim  the  splendour  of  the  day 
Which  breaks  o'er  Naples  and  her  lovely  bay. 
And  lights  that  brilliant  sea  and  magic  shore 
With  every  tint  that  charm'd  the  great  of  yore  ; 
Th'  imperial  ones  of  earth— who  proudly  bade 
Their  marble  domes  e'en  ocean's  realm  invade. 

That  race  is  gone — but  glorious  nature  here 
Maintains  unchanged  her  own  sublime  career. 
And  bids  these  regions  of  the  sun  display 
Bright  hues,  surviving  empires  past  away. 

The  beam  of  heaven  expands— its   kindling 

smile 

Reveals  each  charm  of  many  a  fairy  isle, 
Whose  image  floats  in  softer  colouring  drest 
With  all  its  rocks  and  vines  on  ocean's  breast. 
Misenum's  cape  hath  caught  the  vivid  ray, 
On  Roman  streamers  there  no  more  to  play ; 
Still  as  of  olu,  unalterably  bright. 
Lovely  it  sleeps  on  Posilippo's  height, 
With  all  Italia's  sunshine  to  illume 
The  ilex  canopy  of  Virgil's  tomb. 
Campania's  plains  rejoice  in  light,  and  spread 
Their  say  luxuriance  o'er  the  mighty  dead  ; 
Fair  glittering  to  thine  ov.  A  transparent  skies. 
Thy  palaces,  exulting  Naples !  rise  ; 
While  far  on  high,  Vesuvius  rears  his  peak, 
Furrow'tl  and  dark  with  many  a  lava  streak. 


O  ye  bright  shores  of  Circe  and  the  Muse! 
Rich  with  all  Nature's  and  all  Action's  hues; 
Who  shall  explore  your  regions,  and  declare 
The  poet  err'd  to  paint  Elysium  there  ? 
Call  up  his  spirit,  wanderer !  bid  him  guide 
Thy  steps,  those  siren-haunted  seas  beside. 
And  all  the  scene  a  lovelier  light  shall  wear, 
And  spells  iriore  potent  shall  pervade  the  air. 
What  though  his  dust  be  scatter'd,  and  his  urn 
Long  from  its  sanctuary  of  slumber  torn,(l) 
Still  dwell  the  beings  of  his  verse  around. 
Hovering  in  beauty  o'er  the  enchanted  ground  ; 
His  lays  are  murmur'd  in  each  breeze  that  roves 
Soft  o'er  the  sunny  waves  and  orange-groves. 
His  memory's  charm  is  spread  o'er  shore  and  sea, 
The  soul,  the  genius  of  Parthenope ; 
Shedding  o'er  myrtle-shade  and  vine-clad  hill 
The  purple  radiance  of  Elysium  still. 

Yet  that  fair  soil  and  calm  resplendent  sky 
Have  witness'd  many  a  dark  reality. 
Oft  o'er  those  bright  blue  seas  the  gale  hath  born* 
The  sighs  of  exiles  never  to  return.  (2) 
There  with  the  whisper  of  Campania's  gale 
Hath  mingled  oft  affection's  funeral  wail, 
Mourning  for  buried  heroes — while  to  her 
That  elowing  land  was  but  their  sepulchre.  (3) 
And  there,  of  old,  the  dread,  mysterious  moan 
Swell'd  from  strange  voices  of  no  mortal  tone ; 
And  that  wild  trumpet,  whose  unearthly  note 
Was  heard,  at  midnight,  o'er  the  hills  to  float 
Around  the  spot  where  Agrippina  died, 
Denouncing  vengeance  on  the  matricide.  (4) 

Past  are  those  ages— yet  another  crime, 
Another  woe  must  stain  the  Elysian  clime. 
There  stands  a  scaffold  on  the  sunny  shore— 
Tt  must  be  crimson'd  ere  the  day  is  o'er! 
There  is  a  throne  in  regal  pomp  array'd, — 
A  scene  of  death  from  thence  must  IIP  survey'd. 
Mark'd  ye  the  rushing  throngs  ? — each  mien  is  pale, 
Each  hurried  glance  reveals  a  fearful  tale ; 
But  the  deep  workings  of  th'  indignant  breast. 
Wrath,  haired,  pity,  must  be  all  snppress'd; 
The  burning  tear  awhile  must  check  its  course, 
Th'  avenging  thought  concentrate  all  its  force, 
For  tyranny  is  near,  and  will  not  brook 
Aught  but  submission  in  each  guarded  look. 

Girt  with  his  tierce  Provencals,  and  with  mien 
Austere  in  triumph,  gazing  on  the  scene,  (5) 
And  in  his  eye  a  keen  suspicious  glance 
Of  jealous  pride  and  restless  vigilance, 
Behold  the  conqueror  !— vainly  in  his  face, 
Of  gentler  feeling  hope  would  seek  a  trace  ; 
Cold,  proud,  severe,  the  spirit  which  hath  lent 
Its  haughty  stamp  to  each  dark  lineament ; 
And  pleading  mercy  in  the  sternness  there, 
May  read  at  once  her  sentence— to  despair  1 

But  thou,  fair  boy!  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
Thus  passing  from  the  dungeon  to  the  grave, 
While  all  is  yet  around  thee  which  can  give 
A  charm  to  earth,  and  make  it  bliss  to  live  ; 
Thou,  on  whose  form  hath  dwelt  a  mother's  eye 
Till  the  deep  love  that  not  with  thee  shall  die 
Hath  grown  too  full  for  utterance— can  it  be  ? 
And  is  this  pomp  of  death  prepared  for  thee'! 
Young,  royal  Conradin!  whoshould'st  have  known 
Of  life  as  yet  the  sunny  smile  alone  ! 
Oh!  who  can  view  thee,  in  the  pride  and  bloom 
Of  youth,  array'd  thus  richly  for  the  tomb, 
Nor  feel,  deep-swelling  in  his  inmost  soul, 
Emotions  tyranny  may  ne'er  control  ? 
Bright  victim  !  tJ  ambition's  altar  led, 
Crown'd  with  all  flowers  that  heaven  on  earth  ca« 

shed, 

Who,  from  th'  oppressor  towering  in  his  pride, 
May  hope  for  mercy — if  to  thee  denied? 
There  is  dead  silence  on  the  breathless  throng,— 
Dead  silence  all  the  peopled  shore  along, 
As  on  the  captive  moves— the  only  sound 
To  break  that  calm  so  fearfully  profound. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  low  sweet  iiiunnur  of  the  rippling  wave, 
Soft  as  it  glides  the  smiling  shore  to  lave  ; 
While  on  that  shore,  his  own  fair  heritage, 
The  youthful  martyr  to  a  tyrant's  rage 
Is  passing  to  his  fate — the  eyes  are  dim 
Which  gaze,  through  tears  that  dare  not  flow,  oa 

him  : 

He  mounts  the  scaffold — doth  his  footstep  fail  ? 
Doth  his  lip  quiver?  doth  his  cheek  turn  pale? 
Oh  !  it  may  IM  forgiven  him,  if  a  thought 
(/ling  to  that  world,  for  him  with  beauty  fraught 
To  all  the  hopes  that  promised  Glory's  meed, 
And  all  th'  affections  th.-it.  with  him  shall  bleed  1 
If  in  his  life's  young  day-spring,  while  the  rose 
Of  boyhood  on  his  cheek  yet  freshly  glriws, 
One  human  f.;ar  convulse  his  partinc  breath. 
Ami  shrink  from  all  the  bitterness  of  death  1 

But  no! — the  spirit  of  his  royal  race 
Sits  brightly  on  his  brow — that  youthful  face 
Beams  with  heroic  beauty — and  his  eye 
Is  eloquent  with  injured  majesty. 
He  kneels — but  riot  to  man— his  heart  shall  own 
Such  deep  submission  to  his  God  alone! 
A—  who  can  tell  with  what  sustaining  power 
That  God  may  visit  him  in  fate's  dread  hour? 
How  the  still  voice,  which  answers  every  moan, 
May  speak  of  hope, — when  hope  on  earth  is  gone  ? 

That  solemn  pause  is  o'er — the  youth  hath  given 
One  glance  of  parting  love  to  earth  and  heaven  ; 
The  sun  rejoices  in  th'  unclouded  sky, 
Life  all  around  him  glows — and  he  must  die  t 
Vet  'midst  his  people,  undismay'd,  he  throws 
The  gage  of  vengeance  for  a  thousand  woes; 
Vengeance,  that  like  their  own  volcano's  fire, 
May  sleep  suppress'd  awhile — but  not  expire. 
One  softer  image  rises  o'er  his  breast. 
One  fond  regret,  and  all  shall  be  at  rest ! 
"Alas,  for  thee,  my  mother !  who  shall  bear 
To  thy  sad  heart  the  tidings  of  despair, 
"Vhen  thy  lost  child  is  gone?"— that  thought  can 

thrill 
riis  soul  with  pangs  one  moment  more  shall  still 

The  lifted  axe  is  glittering  in  the  sun — 
It  falls — the  race  of  Conradin  is  run  ! 
Yet  from  the  blood  which  flows  that  shore  to  stain, 
A  voice  shall  cry  to  heaven — and  not  in  vain  I 
Gaze  thou,  triumphant  from  thy  gorgeous  throne, 
In  proud  supremacy  of  guilt  alone, 
Charles  of  Anjou ! — but  that  dread  voice  shall  be 
A  fearful  eummoner  e'en  yet  to  thee  I 

The  scene  of  death  is  closed— the  throngs  depart, 
A  deep  stern  lesson  graved  on  every  heart. 
No  pomp,  no  funeral  rites,  no  streaming  eyes, 
High-minded  boy!  may  grace  thine  obsequies. 
O  vainly  royal  and  beloved  !  thy  grave, 
Unsanctified.  is  bathed  by  ocean's  wave, 
Mark'd  by  no  stone,  a  rude,  neglected  spot, 
Unhonour'd,  unadorn'd — but  unforgot: 
For  thy  deep  wrongs  in  tameless  hearts  shall  live, 
Now  mutely  suffering — never  to  forgive ! 

The  sunset  fades  from  purple  heavens  away, — 
A  bark  hath  anchor'd  in  th'  unruffled  bay; 
Thence  on  the  beach  descends  a  female  form,  (6) 
Her  mien  with»hope  arid  tearful  transport  warm; 
But  life  hath  left  sad  traces  on  her  cheek, 
And  her  soft  eyes  a  chasten'd  heart  bespeak. 
Inured  to  woes — yet  what  were  all  the  past ! 
She  sunk  not  feebly  'neath  affliction's  blast, 
While  one  bright  hope  remain'd — who  now  shall 

tell 
Th'  uncrown'd,  the  widow'd.  how  her  loved  one 

fell? 

To  clasp  her  child,  to  ransom  and  to  save, 
The  mother  came — and  she  hath  found  his  grave ! 
And  by  that  grave,  transflx'd  in  speechless  grief, 
Whose  death-like  trance  denies  a  tear's  relief, 
Awhile  she  kneels — till  roused  at  length  to  know, 
To  feel  the  might,  the  fullness  of  her  woe, 
On  the  still  air  a  voice  of  anguish  wild, 
A  mother's  cry  is  heard— "My  Conradin !  my  child!" 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1. 

Long  from  Us  sanctuary  of  slumber  torn, 
The  urn,  supposed  to  contain  the  ashes  of  Virgil,  bu  lonf  »Mt 
been  lost 

NOTE  2. 

The  fight  cj  exiles  never  to  return, 

Many  Romans  of  exalted  rank  were  formerly  banished  to  «om» 
of  the  small  islands  in  Ibe  Mediterranean,  on  the  coast  of  Italy. 
Julia,  the  daughter  of  Augustus,  was  confined  many  years  in  the 
isle  of  Pandataria,  and  her  daughter,  Agrippina,  the  widow  of  Ger- 
mauicus,  afterwards  died  in  exile  on  the  same  desolate  spot. 

NOTE  3. 
That  glowing  land  was  l/ut  their  sepulchre. 

nous  sonimes,  que  la  veuve  de  Pompee,  Cornelie,  conserva  jusqu'a 
la  mart  son  noble  deuil  j  Agrippine  pleura  long-temps  Germamcus 
iur  ces  brds.  Un  jour,  le  meme  assassin  qui  tui  ravit  son  epoui  la 
trouva  digne  de  le  suivre.  L'ile  de  Nisida  fut  temoin  des  adieu*  dt 
Brutus  et  de  Portie."—  Madame  de  Staei—Curinne. 

NOTE  4. 

Denouncing  vengeance  on  the  matricide. 

The  sight  of  that  coast,  and  those  shores  where  the  crime  had 
been  perpetrated,  filled  Nero  with  continual  horrors;  besides,  there 
were  some  who  imagined  they  heard  horrid  shrieks  and  cries  from 
Agrippiua's  tomb,  and  a  mournful  sound  of  trumpets  from  the 
neighbouring  cliffs  and  hills.  Nero,  therefore,  flying  from  such  tra 
ical  scenes,  withdrew  to  Naples.—  -See  AtKient'Unitxrsal  Baton/ 

NOTE  5. 

Austere  in  triumph,  gazing  on  the  scene. 

"  Ce  Charles,"  dit  Giovanni  Villani,  "fut  sage  et  prudent  dara  « 
conseils,  preux  dans  lea  armes,  apre  et  fort  reroute  de  tous  les  roi* 
du  monde,  magnanime  et  de  hautes  pensees  qui  t'tgalnient  aux  plus 
grandes  entreprises  ;  inebraulable  dans  I'adversite,  ferine  et  fidele 
dans  toutts  ses  procnesses,  parlant  peu  et  agissant  beaucoup,  ne  ritint 

rendre  justice,  feroce  dans  ses  regards.  Sa  taille  etoit  grande  et  ner- 
veuse,  sa  couleur  olivatre,  son  nez  fort  grand.  II  paroissoit  plui  fait 
qu'aucun  autre  chevalier  pour  la  majeste  royale.  II  ne  dormoit 
presque  point.  Jamais  il  ne  prit  de  plaisir  aux  mimes,  aux  trouba- 
dours, et  aux  gens  de  tanu.^—Simondi.  ItepuUigucs  Italienna, 
rol.  iii. 

NOTE  6. 

Tfience  on  the  beach  descends  a  female  form, 
"  The  Carmine  (at  Naples)  calls  to  mind  the  bloody  catastrophe 
of  those  royal  youths,  Conradin  and  Frederick  of  Austria,  butchered 
before  its  door.  Whenever  I  traversed  that  square,  my  heart  yearned 
at  the  idea  of  their  premature  fate,  and  at  the  deep  distress  of  Cou- 
rad  in's  mother,  who,  landing  on  the  beach  with  her  son's  ransom, 
found  only  a  lifeless  trunk  to  redeem  from  the  fangs  of  his  bartaroui 
conqueror."—  SwinLurne's  Travel*  in  the  Two  Sicika. 


^Translations 

FROM 

CAMOENS  AND  OTHER  POETS. 


Sbuno  nati  veramente  in  un  secoto  in  cui  gl'  ingegni  e  gli  sludj  degli 
uomini  sono  rivolti  all'  utilita.  L'Agricohura,  le  Arti,  il  Commer- 
cio  acquistano  luttodi  novi  lumi  dalle  ricerche  de'Saggi;  e  il  vo 
ler  farsi  un  nome  tentando  di  dilettare,  r.uand'allri  v>  aspira  con 
piu  giustizia  giovando,  sembra  impresa  dura  e  difficile. 


CAMOENS.— SONNET  70. 

Na  metade  do  Ceo  subido  ardia. 

HIGH  in  the  glowing  heavens,  with  cloudless  beam, 
The  sun  had  rcach'd  the  zenith  of  his  reign, 
And  for  the  living  fount,  the  gelid  stream. 
Each  flock  forsook  the  herbage  of  the  plain  : 
'Midst  the  dark  foliage  of  the  forest-shade, 
The  birds  had  shelter'd  from  the  scorching  ray  ; 
Hush'd  were  their  melodies — and  grove  and  glad* 
Resounded  but  the  shrill  cicada's  lay  ; 

When  through  the  glassy  vale  a  lovelorn  swain, 
To  seek  the  maid  who  but  despised  his  pain, 
Breathing  vain  sighs  of  fruitless  passion,  roved : 
"  Why  pine  for  her,"  the  slighted  wanderer  cried. 
"  By  whom  thou  art  not  loved  ?" — and  thus  replied 
An  nciio's  murmuring  voice — "  T/iou  art  not  loved  I" 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CAMOENS.— SONNET  282. 

FROM    PSALM    CXXXVII. 


Na  ribeira  do  Euphrate 


ntado. 


WRAPT  in  sad  musings  l>y  Euphrates'  stream 
I  sat,  retracing  days  for  over  flown, 
Wliili;  rose  thine  image  on  the  exile's  dream, 
O  much-loved  Salami'" and  thy  glories  gone. 

When  they  who  caused  the  ceaseless  tears  T  shed. 
Thus  t-i  their  captive  spoke,— Why  sleep  thy  lays? 
Sing  of  thy  Ui-asiiivs  lost,  thy  splendour  fled, 
And  all  thy  in.implis  in  departed  days! 

"  Knovv'st  thon  not,  Harmony's  resistless  charm 
Can  soothe  each  passion,  and  each  grief  disarm  ? 
Ping  then,  and  tears  will  vanish  from  thine  eye." 
With  sighs  I  answer'd, — "  When  the  cup  of  woe 
Is  filTd,  till  misery's  hitter  draught  o'erflow, 
The  mourner's  cure  is  not  to  sing, — but  die." 


CAMOENS.— PART  OF  ECLOGUE  15. 


Be  la  no  issento  da  maior  altez 


IF  in  thy  glorious  home  above 
Thou  still  recallest  earthly  love, 
If  yet  retain'd  a  thought  may  be 
Of  him  whose  heart  hath  bled  for  thee; 

Remember  still  how  deeply  shrined 
Thine  image  in  his  joyless  mind, 
Each  well-known  scene,  each  former  care, 
Forgotten— thou  alone  art  there  ! 

Remember  that  thine  eye-beam's  light 
Hath  fled  forever  from  his  sight, 
And  with  that  vanish'd  sunshine,  loit 
Is  every  hope  he  cherish'd  most. 

Think  that  his  life  from  thee  apart. 
Is  all  but  weariness  of  heart, 
Each  stream  whose  music  once  was  dear, 
Now  ijurmurs  discords  to  his  ear. 

Through  thee,  the  morn,  whose  cloudless  rayi 
Woke  him  to  joy  in  other  days, 
Now  in  the  light  of  beauty  drest, 
Brings  but  new  sorrows  to  his  breast. 

Through  thee,  the  heavens  are  dark  to  him, 
Tile  sun's  meridian  blaze  is  dim  ; 
And  harsh  were  e'en  the  bird  of  eve, 
But  that  her  song  still  loves  to  grieve. 

All  it  hath  been,  his  heart  forgets, 
So  alter'd  by  its  long  regrets; 
Each  wish  is  changed,  each  hope  is  o'er, 
And  joy's  light  spirit  wakes  no  more. 


CAMOENS.— SONNET  271. 


A  formotura  delta  fresca  tern. 


THIS   mountain   scene,   with    sylvan    grandeur 

crown'd ; 

These  chestnut  woods,  In  summer  verdure  bright; 
These  founts  and  rivulets,  whose  mingling  sound 
Lulls  every  bosom  to  serene  delight ; 

Soft  on  these  hills  the  sun's  declin'ig  ray ; 

This  clime  where  all  is  new;  these  murmuring 

seas ; 

Flocks  to  the  fold  that  bend  their  lingering  way ' 
Light  clouds  contending  with  the  genial  breeze' 

And  all  that  Nature's  lavish  band?  di*pen«4, 
In  gay  luxuriance,  charming  every  fen 


Ne'er  in  thy  absence,  can  delight  my  breast : 
Naught  without  thee  my  weary  soui  beguiles; 
And  joy  may  beam,  yet  'midst  her  brightest  smile* 
A  secret  grief  is  mine  that  will  not  rest. 


CAMOENS.— SONNET  186. 


Os  olboe  onde  o  casto  Amor  ardia 


THOSE  eyes,  whence  Love  diffused  his  purest  light, 
Proud  in  such  beaming  orbs  his  reign  to  show ; 
That  face,  with  tints  of  mingling  lustre  bright, 
Where  the  rose  mantled  o'er  the  living  snow  ; 

The  rich  redundance  of  that  golden  hair, 
Brighter  than  sunbeams  of  meridian  day ; 
That  form  so  graceful,  and  that  hand  so  fair, 
Where  now  those  treasures? — mouldering  into 
clay  1 

Thus,  like  some  blossom  prematurely  torn, 
Hath  young  Perfection  wither'd  in  its  morn, 
Touch'd  by  the  hand  that  gathers  but  to  blight  I 
Oh !  how  could  Love  survive  his  bitter  tears  ? 
Shed,  not  for  her  who  mounts  to  happier  spheres, 
But  for  his  own  tad  fate,  thus  wrapt  in  starless 
night  1 


CAMOENS.— SONNET  108. 


Brandai  aguai  do  Tejo  que  paoando. 


FAIR  Tajo!  thou,  whose  calmly-flowing  tide 
Bathes  the  fresh  verdure  of  these  lovely  plains. 
Enlivening  all  where'er  thy  waves  may  glide, 
Flowers,  herbage,  flocks,  and  sylvan  nymphs,  and 
swains : 

Sweet  stream  1  I  know  not  when  my  steps  again 
Shall  tread  thy  shores;  and  while  to  part  I  mourn, 
f  have  no  hope  to  meliorate  my  pain. 
No  dream  that  whispers — I  may  yet  return  I 

My  frowning  destiny,  whose  watchful  care 
Forbids  me  blessings,  and  ordains  despair, 
Commands  me  thus  to  leave  thee  and  repine! 
And  1  must  vainly  mourn  the  scenes  I  fly, 
And  breathe  on  other  gales  my  plaintive  sigh, 
And  blend  my  tears  with  other  waves  than  thine  I 


CAMOENS.— SONNET  33. 
TO   A   LADY    WHO    DIED   AT   SEA. 


Chin  minha  inimiga,  em  cuja  mao. 


THOU,  to  whose  power  my  hopes,  my  joys,  I  gave, 
O  fondly  loved  !  my  bosom's  dearest  care ! 
Earth,  which  denied  to  lend  thy  form  a  grave, 
Yields  not  one  spell  to  soothe  my  deep  despair! 

Yes  !  the  wild  seas  entomb  those  charms  divine, 
Dark  o'er  thy  head  th'  eternal  billows  roll ; 
But  while  one  ray  of  life  or  thought  is  mine, 
Still  shall  thou  live,  the  inmate  of  my  soul. 

And  if  the  tones  of  my  uncultured  song 
Have  power  the  sad  remembrance  to  prolong, 
Of  love  so  ardent,  and  of  faith  so  pure ; 
Still  shall  my  verse  thine  epitaph  remain, 
Still  shall  thy  charms  be  deathless  in  my  strain, 
While  Time,  and  Love,  and  Memory  shall  endure 
VOL.  I.— 16 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CAMOENS.— SONNET  19. 


Alma  minha  gentil,  que  te  partiste. 


SPIRIT  beloved !  whose  wing  so  soon  hath  flown 
The  joyless  precincts  of  this  earthly  sphere, 
Now  if  yon  heaven  eternally  thine  own, 
Whilst  I  deplore  thy  loss,  a  captive  here. 

Oh  !  if  allow'd  in  thy  divine  abode 
Of  aught  on  earth  an  image  to  retain, 
Remember  sf.ill  the  fervent  love  which  glow'd 
In  my  fond  bosom,  pure  from  every  stain. 

And  if  thou  deem  that  all  my  faithful  grief, 
Caused  by  thy  loss,  and  hopeless  of  relief, 
Can  merit  thee,  sweet  native  of  the  skies! 
Oh!  ask  of  heaven,  which  call'd  thee  soon  away, 
That  I  may  join  thee  in  those  realms  of  day. 
Swiftly,  as  thou  hast  vanish'd  from  mine  eyes. 


CAMOENS. 


Que  ettnnho  case  de  amor  1 


How  strange  a  fate  in  love  is  mine  I 
How  dearly  prized  the  pains  I  feel! 
Pangs  that  to  rend  my  soul  combine. 

With  avarice  I  conceal : 
For  did  the  world  the  tale  divine, 
My  lot  would  then  be  deeper  woe, 
And  mine  is  grief  that  none  must  know. 

To  mortal  ears  I  may  not  dare 
Unfold  the  cause,  the  pain  I  prove; 
'T  would  plunge  in  ruin  and  despair, 
Or  me,  or  her  I  love. 
My  soul  delights  alone  to  bear 
Her  silent,  unsuspected  woe. 
And  none  shall  pity,  none  shall  know. 

Thus  buried  in  my  bosom's  urn. 
Thus  in  my  inmost  heart  conceal'd, 
Let  me  alone  the  secret  mourn. 
In  pangs  unsoothed  and  unreveal'd 
For  whether  happiness  or  woe. 
Or  life  or  death  its  power  bestow, 
It  ia  what  none  on  earth  must  know. 


CAMOENS— SONNET  5S. 


Se  u  penas  com  que  Amor  tao  mal  me  trata. 


SHOULD  Love,  the  tyrant  of  my  suffering  heart 
Vet  long  enough  protract  his  votary's  days, 
To  see  flie  lustre  from  those  eyes  depart, 
The  lode-stars  now,*  that  fascinate  my  gaze  , 

To  see  rude  Time  the  living  roses  blight, 
That  o'er  thy  cheek  their  loveliness  unfold, 
And  all  unpitying  change  thy  tresses  bright, 
To  silvery  whiteness,  from  their  native  gold; 

Oh  !  then  my  heart  an  equal  change  will  prove, 
And  mourn  the  coldness  that  repell'd  my  love. 
When  tears  and  penitence  will  all  be  vain  ; 
And  I  shall  see  thee  weep  for  days  gone  by, 
And  in  thy  deep  regret  and  fruitless  sigh. 
Find  amplest  vengeance  for  my  former  pain. 


CAMOENS.— SONNET  178. 


Ja  cantei,  ja  chore!  a  dura  guern. 


Oft  have  I  sung  and  mourn'd  the  bitter  woe«, 
Which  Love  for  years  hath  mingled  with  my  fate, 
While  he  the  tale  forbade  me  to  disclose. 
That  taught  his  votaries  their  deluded  state. 

"  Your  eye«  are  lode-atari." 


Nymphs!  who  dispense  Castalia's  living  stream. 
Ye,  who  from  Death  oblivion's  mantle  steal 
Grant  me  a  strain  in  powerful  tone  supreme, 
Each  grief  by  love  inflicted  to  reveal ; 

That  those,  whose  ardent  hearts  adore  his  sway, 
May  hear  experience  breathe  a  warning  lay, 
How  false  his  smiles,  his  promises  how  vain  , 
Then,  if  ye  deign  this  effort  to  inspire. 
When  the  sad  task  is  o'er,  my  plaintive  lyre. 
For  ever  hush'd,  shall  slumber  in  your  fane. 


CAMOENS.— SONNET  80. 


Como  quando  do  mar  tempestuow 


SAVED  from  the  perils  of  the  stormy  wave, 
And  faint  with  toil,  the  wanderer  of  the  main, 
But  just  escaped  from  shipwreck's  billowy  grave 
Trembles  to  hear  its  horrors  named  again. 

How  warm  his  vow,  that  Ocean's  fairest  mien 
No  more  shall  lure  him  from  the  smiles  of  home; 
Yet  soon,  forgetting  each  terrific  scene. 
Once  more  he  turns,  o'er  boundless  deeps  to  roam. 

Lady!  thus  t,  who  vainly  oft  in  flight 

Seek  refuge  from  the  dangers  of  thy  sight. 

Make  the  firm  vow,  to  shun  thee  and  be  free' 

But  my  fond  heart,  devoted  to  its  chain, 

Still  draws  me  back  where  countless  perils  reign 

And  grief  and  ruin  spread  their  snares  for  me. 


CAMOENS— SONNET  239. 

FROM   PSALM   CXXXVII. 


Embabylonia  sobre  05  not,  quando. 


BESIDE  the  streams  of  Babylon,  in  tears 
Of  vain  desire,  we  sat;  remembering  thee. 
O  hallow'd  Sion  !  and  the  vanish'd  years, 
When  Israel's  chosen  sons  were  blest  and  free; 

Our  harps,  neglected  and  untuned,  we  hung 
Mute  on  the  willows  of  the  stranger's  land  ; 
When  songs,  like  those  that  in  thy  fanes  we  sung 
Our  foes  demanded  from  their  captive-band. 

How  shall  our  voices,  on  a  foreign  shore, 
(We  answer'd  those  whose  chains  the  exile  wore  ' 
The  songs  of  God,  our  sacred  songs,  renew  1 
If  I  forget,  'midst  grief  and  wasting  toil, 
Thee,  O  Jerusalem  !  my  native  soil ! 
May  my  right  hand  forget  its  cunning  too  I 


CAMOENS.— SONNET  128. 


Hum*  tdmiravel  herva  se  eonhece. 


THERE  blooms  a  plant,  whose  gaze,  from  hour  t« 

hour, 

Still  to  the  sun  with  fond  devotion  turns, 
Wakes  when  Creation  hails  his  dawning  power. 
And  most  expands,  when  most  her  idol  burns: 

But  when  he  seeks  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 
His  faithful  plant's  reflected  charms  decay; 
Then  fade  her  flowers,  her  leaves  discolour'd  weep 
Still  fondly  pining  for  the  vanish'd  ray. 

Thou  whom  I  love,  the  day-star  of  my  ?ieht! 
When  thy  dear  presence  wakes  me  to  delight, 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


59 


<oy  in  my  sou.  unto>as  nor  fairest  flower; 
But  in  thy  heaven  of  smiles  alone  it  blooms 
And  of  their  light  deprived,  in  grief  consume!, 
Born  but  to  live  within  thine  eye-beam's  power. 


CAMOENS. 


Folo  nieu  apartamento. 


AMIDST  the  bitter  tears  that  fell 

In  anguish  at  my  last  farewell, 

Oh  '.  who  would  dream  that  joy  could  dwell. 

To  make  that  moment  bright  ? 
Y«t  be  my  judge,  each  heart!  and  say, 
Which  then  could  most  my  bosom  sway, 

Affliction,  or  delight? 

It  was,  when  Hope,  oppress'd  with  woes, 
Seem'd  her  dim  eyes  in  death  to  close. 
That  rapture's  brightest  beam  arose 

In  sorrow's  darkest  night. 
Thus  if  my  soul  survive  that  hour, 
'Tis  that  my  fate  o'ercame  the  power 

Of  anguish  with  delight. 

For  oh!  her  love,  so  long  unknown, 
She  then  confest,  was  all  my  own, 
And  in  that  parting  hour  alone 

Reveal'd  it  to  my  sight. 
And  now  what  pangs  will  rend  my  soul, 
Should  fortune  still,  with  stern  control, 

Forbid  me  this  delight. 

I  know  not  if  my  bliss  were  vain, 
For  all  the  force  of  parting  pain 
Forbade  suspicious  doubts  to  reign, 
When  exiled  from  her  sight; 
Yet  now  what  double  woe  for  me, 
Just  at  the  close  of  eve,  to  see 
The  day-spring  of  delight. 

CAMOENS.— SONNET  205 


Quern  diz  que  Amor  he  falso,  o  engamxo. 

HE  who  proclaims  that  Love  is  light  and  vain 
Capricious,  cruel,  false  in  all  his  ways  ; 
Ah!  sure  too  well  has  merited  his  pain. 
Too  justly  finds  him  all  he  thus  portrays. 

For  Love  is  pitying.  Love  is  soft  and  kind  ; 
Believe  not  him  who  dares  the  tale  oppose  : 
Oh!  deem  him  one  whom  stormy  passions  blind, 
One  to  whom  earth  and  heaven  may  well  be  foe* 

If  Love  bring  evils,  view  them  all  in  met 
Here  let  the  world  his  utmost  rigour  see, 
His  utmost  power  exerted  to  annoy : 
But  all  his  ire  is  still  the  ire  of  Love  t 
And  such  delight  in  all  his  woes  I  prove, 
I  would  not  change  their  pangs  for  aught  of  other 
joy! 


CAMOENS.— SONNET  133 


Doce>,  e  clans  aguas  do  Mondego. 


WAVES  of  Mondego!  brilliant  and  serene. 
Haunts  of  my  thought,   where   memory  fondly 

strays; 

Where  hope  allured  me  with  perfidious  mien, 
Witching  my  soul,  in  long-departed  days; 

Yes :  I  forsake  your  banks  ;  but  still  my  heart 
Shall  bid  remembrance  all  your  charms  restore, 
And,  suffering  not  one  image  to  depart, 
Find  lengthening  distance  but  endear  you  more. 

Let  fortune's  will,  through  many  a  future  day, 
To  distant  realms  this  mortal  frame  convey. 


Sport  of  each  wind,  and  tost  on  every  wave . 
Yet  my  fond  soul,  to  pensive  memory  true. 
On  thought's  light  pinion  still  shall  fly  to  you, 
And  still,  bright  waters  in  your  current  lave. 


CAMOENS.— SONNET  181. 


Onde  acharei  lugar  tao  apartado. 


WHERE  shall  I  find  some  desert-scene  so  rude, 
Where  loneliness  so  undUturb'd  may  reign, 
That  not  a  step  shall  ever  there  intrude 
Of  roving  man,  or  nature's  savage  train? 

Some  tangled  thicket,  desolate  and  drear, 
Or  deep  wild  forest,  silent  as  the  tomb, 
Boasting  no  verdure  bright,  no  fountain  clear, 
But  darkly  suited  to  my  spirit's  gloom  ? 

That  there  'midst  frowning  rocks,  alone  with 

grief 

Entomb'd  in  life,  and  hopeless  of  relief. 
In  lonely  freedom  I  may  breathe  my  woes — 
For  oh  !  since  naught  my  sorrows  can  allay, 
There  shall  my  sadness  cloud  no  festal  day. 
And  days  of  gloom  shall  soothe  me  to  repose. 


CAMOENS.— SONNET  278. 


Eu  vivia  de  lagrimu  iseoto. 


EXEMPT  from  every  grief,  't  was  mine  to  live 
In  dreams  so  sweet,  enchantments  so  divine, 
A  thousand  joys  propitious  Love  can  give. 
Were  scarcely  worth  one  rapturous  pain  of  mine 

Bound  by  soft  spells,  in  dear  illusions  blest, 
I  breathed  no  sigh  for  fortune  or  for  power; 
No  care  intruding  to  disturb  my  breast, 
I  dwelt  entranced  in  Love's  Elysian  bower  . 

But  Fate,  such  transports  eager  to  destroy. 
Soon  rudely  woke  me  from  the  dream  of  joy. 
And  bade  the  phantoms  of  delight  begone  I 
Bade  hope  and  happiness  at  once  depart. 
And  left  but  memory  to  distract  my  heart, 
Retracing  every  hour  of  bliss  for  ever  flown 


CAMOENS. 


Mi  nueve  y  dulce  querella. 


No  searching  eye  can  pierce  the  veil 
That  o'er  my  secret  love  is  thrown  ; 
No  outward  signs  reveal  its  tale, 

But  to  my  bosom  known. 
Thus  like  the  spark,  whose  vivid  light 
I.I  the  dark  flint  is  hid  from  sight, 

It  dwells  within,  alone. 


METASTASIO. 


Donque  si  sfnga  in  pianto. 

In  tears,  the  heart  oppress'd  with  grief 

Gives  language  to  its  woes ; 
In  tears,  its  fullness  finds  relief, 

When  rapture's  tide  o'erflows! 
Who  then  unclouded  bliss  would  seek 

On  this  terrestrial  sphere ; 
When  e'en  Delight  can  only  speak, 

Like  Sorrow— in  a  tear? 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


VINCENZIO  DA  FILICAJA. 

Italia !  Italia !  O  tu  cui  feo  la  aorta. 

ITALI*  !  thou  by  lavish  Nature  graced 

With  ill  starr'd  beauty,  which  to  thee  hath  been 

A  fatal  dowry,  whose  effects  are  traced 

In  the  deep  sorrows  graven  on  thy  mien; 

Oh!   that  more  strength,  or  fewer  charms,  were 

thine. 

That  those  might  fi>ar  thee  more,  or  love  thee  leaf, 
Who  seem  to  worship  at  thy  beauty's  shrine, 
Then  leave  thee  to  the  death-pang's  bitterness  1 

Not  then  the  herds  of  Gaul  would  drain  the  tide 
Of  that  Eridanus  thy  blood  had  dyed ; 
Nor  from  the  Alps  would  legions,  still  renew'd. 
Pour  down ;  nor  wouldst  thou  wield  a  foreign 

brand. 

Nor  fight  thy  battles  with  the  stranger's  hand, 
Still  doom'd  to  serve,  subduing  or  subdued  1 


PASTORIN1. 

Geneva  mil,  M  con  atciutto  ciglio. 

IF  thus  thy  fallen  grandeur  I  behold, 
My  native  Genoa!  with  a  tearless  eye, 
Think  not  thy  son's  \ingrateful  heart  is  cold. 
But  know— I  deem  rebellious  every  Bighl 

Thy  glorious  ruins  proudly  I  survey. 

Trophies  of  firm  resolve,  of  patriot  might! 

And  in  each  trace  of  devastation's  way 

Thy  worth,  thy  courage,  meet  my  wandering  sight 

Triumphs  far  less  than  suffering  virtue  shine ! 

And  on  the  spoilers  high  revenge  is  thine. 

While  Ihy  strong  spirit  unsubdued  remains. 

And  lo  1  fair  Liberty  rejoicing  flies, 

To  kiss  each  noble  relic,  while  she  cries, 

'Hail!  though,  in  ruins,  thou  wert  ne'er  in  chains  /" 


LOPE  DE  VEGA. 


Estese  el  cortesaDO. 


LET  the  vain  courtier  waste  his  days. 
Lured  by  the  charms  that  wealth  displays, 
couch  of  down,  the  board  of  costly  fare"; 
\>.  his  to  kiss  th'  ungrateful  hand 
/'hat  waves  the  sceptre  of  command, 

-»ii.l  rear  full  many  a  palace  in  tli.:  air; 
Whilst  I  enjoy,  all  unconfined, 
The  glowing  sun,  the  genial  wind, 

And  tranquil  hours,  to  rustic  toil  assign'd ; 
And  prize  far  more,  in  peace  and  health. 

Contented  indigence,  than  joyless  wealth. 

Not  mine  in  Fortune's  face  to  bend, 

At  Grandeur's  altar  to  attend, 
Reflect  hir  smile,  and  tremble  at  his  frown  ; 

Nor  '     ae  a  fond  aspiring  thought, 

A  w..,/!,  a  sigh,  a  vision,  fraught 
/ith  Fame's  bright  phantom,  Glory's  deathless 
crown  I 

Nectareous  draughts  and  viands  pure, 

Luxuriant  Nature  will  insure  ; 

These  the  clear  fount,  and  fertile  field, 

Still  to  the  wearied  shepherd  yield; 

And  when  repose  and  visions  reign, 
Then  we  ire  equals  all,  the  monarch  and  the i wain 


FRANCISCO  MANUEL. 

ON  ASCENDING  A  HILL  LEADING  TO  A  CONVEMT. 


No  baxei  temerou,  o  peregrins. 


PAUSE  not  with  lingering  foot,  O  pilgrim,  here ; 
Pierce  the  deep  shadows  of  the  mountain-side; 
Firm  be  thy  step,  thy  heart  unknown  to  fear. 
To  brighter  worlds  this  thorny  path  will  guide. 

Soon  shall  thy  feet  approach  the  calm  abode, 
So  near  the  mansions  of  supreme  delight ; 
Pause  not— but  tread  this  consecrated  road, 
"J'is  the  dark  basis  of  the  heavenly  height. 

Behold,  to  cheer  thee  on  the  toilsome  way, 
How  many  a  fountain  glitters  down  the  hill! 
Pure  gales,  inviting,  softly  round  thee  play. 
Bright  sunshine  guides — and  wilt  thou  linger  still  7 
Oh !  enter  there,  where,  freed  from  human  strife 
Hope  is  reality,  and  time  is  life. 


DELLA   CASA. 
VENICE. 


Queiti  palazzi,  t  queste  logge  or  coke. 

THESE  marble  domes,  by  wealth  and  genius  graced 
With  sculptured  forms,  bright  hues,  and  Parian 

stone, 

Were  once  rude  cabins  'midst  a  lonely  waste. 
Wild  shores  of  solitude,  and  isles  unknown. 

Pure  from  each  vice,  'twas  here  a  virtuous  train 
Fearless  in  fragile  barks  explored  the  sea; 
Not  theirs  a  wish  to  conquer  or  to  reign. 
They  sought  these  island-precincts — to  be  free. 

Ne'er  in  their  souls  ambition's  flame  arose, 
No  dream  of  avarice  broke  their  calm  repose ; 
Fraud,   more  than  death   abhorr'd   each   artless 

breast : 

Oh!  now,  since  Fortune  gilds  their  brightening  day, 
Let  not  those  virtues  languish  and  decay, 
O'erwhelm'd  by  luxury,  and  by  wealth  oppresl' 


IL  MARJHESE  CORNELIO  BENTIVOGLIO. 


L'aiiiiua  bella,  che  dal  vero  Eliso. 


THE  sainted  spirit,  which  from  bliss  on  high 
Descends  like  day-spring  to  my  favour'd  sight, 
Shines  in  such  noontide  radiance  of  the  sky, 
Scarce  do  I  know  that  form,  intensely  bright  1 

But  with  the  sweetness  of  her  well-known  smile 
That  smile  of  peace!  she  bids  my  doubts  depart, 
And  takes  my  hand,  and  softly  speaks  the  while, 
And  heaven's  full  glory  pictures  to  my  heart. 

Beams  of  that  heaven  in  her  my  eyes  behold. 
And  now,  e'en  now,  in  thought  my  wings  unfold 
To  soar  with  her,  and  mingle  with  the  blest! 
But  ah!  so  swift  her  buoyant  pinion  flies, 
That  I,  in  vain  aspiring  to  the  skies. 
Fall  to  my  native  sphere  by  earthly  bonds  deprett. 


METASTASIO. 


Al  furor  d'avvera  torte. 


HE  shall  not  dread  Misfortune's  angry  mien, 
Nor  feebly  sink  beneath  her  tempest  rude, 
Whose  soul  hath  learn'd,  through  many  a  trying 

scene, 
To  smile  at  fate,  and  suffer  unsubdued. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


61 


(n  the  rough  school  of  billows,  clouds,  and  storms, 
Nursed  anil  matured,  the  pilot  learns  his  art: 
Thus  Fate's  dread  ire,  by  many  a  conflict,  forms 
The  lofty  spirit  and  enduring  heart! 


METASTASIO. 


QuelU  onda  che  ruin*. 


THE  torrent-wave,  that  breaks  with  force 
Impetuous  down  tho  Alpine  height, 
Complains  and  struggles  in  its  course, 
But  sparkles,  as  the  diamond  bright. 

The  stream  in  shadowy  valley  deep 
May  slumber  in  its  narrow  bed  ; 
But  silent  in  unbroken  sleep, 
Its  lustre  and  its  life  are  fled. 


METASTASIO. 


Leggiadra  rosa,  le  cui  pure  foglie. 


SWEET  rose  I  whose  tender  foliage  to  expand, 
Her  fostering  dews  the  morning  lightly  shed. 
Whilst  gales  of  balmy  breath  thy  blossoms  fann'd, 
And  o'er  thy  leaves  the  soft  suffusion  spread ; 

That  hand  whose  care  withdrew  thee  from  the 

ground, 

To  brighter  worlds  thy  favour'd  charms  hath  borne ; 
Thy  fairest  buds,  with  grace  perennial  crown'd, 
There   breathe   and   bloom,  released  from  every 

thorn. 

Thus,  far  removed,  and  now,  transplanted  flower 
Exposed  no  more  to  blast  or  tempest  rude, 
Bln-lter'd  with  tenderest  care  from  frost  or  shower, 
And  each  rough  season's  chill  vicissitude, 
Now  may  thy  form  in  bowers  of  peace  assume 
Immortal  fragrance,  and  unwithering  bloom. 


METASTASIO. 


Che  speri,  initabil  Dea,  di  tas«i  e  spine. 

FJRTUHE!  why  thus,  where'er  my  footsteps  tread, 
Obstruct  each  path  with  rocks  and  thorns   like 

these  j 
Think'st  thou  that  7  thy  threatening  mien  shall 

dread, 
Or  toil  and  pant  thy  waving  locks  to  seize  ? 

Reserve  the  frown  severe,  the  menace  rude, 
For  VitsFa  I -spirits  that  confess  thy  sway  1 
Mu  constant  soul  could  triumph  unsubdued, 
Were  the  wide  universe  destruction's  prey. 

Am  I  to  conflicts  new,  in  toils  untried? 
\o  1  I  he  '5  long  thine  utmost  power  defied, 
And  drawn  fresh  energies  from  every  flght. 
Thus  from  rude  strokes  of  hammers  and  the  wheel, 
With  each  successive  shock  the  temper'd  steel 
More  keenly  piercing  proves,  more  dazzling  bright. 


METASTASIO. 


Parlagli  d>  on  periglto. 

Worr.DsT  thou  to  Love  of  danger  speak  ?— 
Veil'd  are  his  eyes,  to  perils  blind  ! 
WotiKlst  thou  from  Love  a  reason  seek? — 
He  is  a  child  of  wayward  mind  I 


But  with  a  doubt,  a  jealous  fear, 
Inspire  him  once— the  task  is  o'er; 
His  mind  is  keen,  his  sight  is  clear, 
No  more  an  infant,  blind  no  more. 


METASTASIO. 


Sprezza  it  furor  del  venlo. 


UNBENDING  'midst  the  wintry  skies. 
Rears  the  tirm  oak  his  vigorous  form, 
And  stern  in  rugged  strength  defies 
The  rushing  of  the  storm ; 

Then  sever'd  from  his  native  shore, 
O'er  ocean  worlds  the  sail  to  bear. 
Still  with  those  winds  he  braved  befort 
He  proudly  struggles  there. 


METASTASIO. 


Sol  puo  dir  che  tio  eontento. 


OH!  those  alone,  whose  sever'd  hearts 
Have  mourn'd  through  lingering  years  in  /tic. 
Can  tell  what  bliss  fond  love  imparts, 
When  Fate  unites  them  once  again : 

Sweet  is  the  sigh,  and  blest  the  tear, 
Whose  language  hails  that  moment  bright, 
When  past  afflictions  but  endear 
The  presence  of  delight  I 

METASTASIO. 


Ah !  frenate  1  pianto  imbello. 


AH!  cease— those  fruitless  tears  restrain, 
I  go  misfortune  to  defy. 
To  smile  at  fate  with  proud  disdain, 
To  triumph— not  to  die  I 

I  with  fresh  laurels  go  to  crown 
My  closing  days  at  last, 
Securing  all  the  bright  renown 
Acquired  in  dangers  past. 


QUEVEDO. 
ROME  BURIED  IN  HER  OWN  RUINS. 


Buscas  en  Roma  a  Roma,  o  peregrine  I 

AMIDST  these  scenes,  O    pilgrim !   seek'st  thoi 

Rome  ? 

Vain  is  thy  search— the  pomp  of  Rome  Is  fled  ; 
Her  silent  Aventine  is  glory's  tomb; 
Her  walls,  her  shrines,  but  relics  of  the  dead 

That  hill  where  Ciesars  dwelt  in  other  days 
Forsaken  mourns,  where  once  it  tower'd  sublime- 
Each  mouldering  medal  now  far  less  displays 
Tho  triumphs  won  by  Latium,  than  by  Time. 

Tiber  alone  survives— the  passing  wave, 

That   bathed  her  towers,  now  murmurs  by  her 

grave, 

Walling,  with  plaintive  sound,  her  fallen  fanes. 
Rcmel  of  thine  ancient  grandeur  all  is  past. 
That  seem'd  for  years  eternal  framed  to  last 
Naught  but  the  wave,  a  fugitive — remain*. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


EL  CONDE  JUAN  DE  TARSIS. 


Tu,  que  la  dulce  vida  en  tiernot  anoi. 

THOO,  who  hast  fled  from  Life's  enchanted  bowert, 
In  youth's  gay  spring,  in  beauty's  glowing  mom, 
Leaving  thy  bright  array,  thy  path  of  flowers. 
For  the  rude  convent-garb,  and  couch  of  thorn; 

Thou  that,  escaping  from  a  world  of  cares, 
Hast  found  thy  haven  in  devotion's  fane, 
As  to  the  port  the  fearful  bark  repairs, 
To  shun  the  midnight  perils  of  the  main  ; 

Now  the  glad  hymn,  the  strain  of  rapture  pour, 
While  on  thy  soul  the  beams  of  glory  risel 
For  if  the  pilot  hail  the  welcome  shore. 
With  s-houts  of  triumph  swelling  to  the  skies; 
Oh!  howshouldst  than  the  exulting  paean  raise. 
Now  heaven's  bright  harbour  opens  on  th)  gaze. 


TORQUATO  TASSO. 


Neyli  anni  acerbi  tuoi,  purpurea  I 


THOO  In  thy  morn  wert  like  a  plowing  rose, 
To  the  mild  sunshine  only  half  display'd, 
That  shunned  its  bashful  graces  to  disclose, 
And  in  its  vale  of  verdure  sought  a  shade; 

Or  like  Aurora  did  thy  charms  appear, 

(Since  mortal  form    ne'er  vied,  with   aught   to 

bright,) 

Aurora,  smiling  from  her  tranquil  sphere, 
O'er  vale  and  mountain  shedding  dew  and  light; 

Now  riper  years  have  doom'd  no  grace  to  fade, 
Nor  youthful  charms,  in  all  their  pride  array'd. 
Excel,  or  equal,  thy  neglected  form. 
Thus,  full  expanded,  lovelier  is  the  flower, 
And  the  bright  day-star,  in  its  noontide  hour, 
More  briliant  shines,  in  genial  radiance  warm. 


BERNARDO  TASSO. 


Quest'  ombia  che  giammai  non  vide  il  sole. 


THIS  green  recess,   where  through    the  bowery 

gloom 

Ne'er  e'en  at  noontide  hours  the  sunbeam  play'd, 
Where  violet-beds  in  soft  luxuriance  bloom, 
'Midst  the  cool  freshness  of  the  myrtle-shade; 

Where  through  the  grass  a  sparkling  fountain 

steals. 

Whose  murmuring  wave,  transparent  as  it  flows, 
No  mDre  its  bed  of  yellow  sand  conceals, 
Than  the  pure  crystal  hides  the  glowing  rose; 

This  bower  of  peace,  thou  soother  of  our  care, 
God  of  soft  slumbers,  and  of  visions  fair! 
A  lowly  shepherd  consecrates  to  thee! 
Then  breathe  around  some  spell  of  deep  rrjose, 
And  charm  his  eyes  in  balmy  dew  to  close, 
Those  eyes,  fatigued  with  grief,  from  tear-drops 
never  free. 


PETRARCH. 


Chi  raol  Tfder  quantunque  pno  utan. 


THOO  that  wouldst  mark,  in  form  of  human  birth 
All  heaven  and  nature's  perfect  skill  combined, 
Come  gaze  on  her,  the  day-star  of  the  earth, 
Dazzling,  not  me  alone,  but  all  mankind : 


And  haste  >  for  Death,  who  spares  the  guilty  long. 
First  calls  the  brightest  and  the  best  away  ; 
And  to  her  home,  amidst  the  cherub-throng. 
The  angelic  mortal  flies,  and  will  not  stay  j 

Haste  I  and  each  outward  charm,  each  mental 

grace, 

In  one  consummate  form  thine  eye  shall  trace, 
Model  of  loveliness,  for  earth  too  fair! 
Thi'ii  thou  shalt  own,  how  faint  my  votive  lays, 
My  spirit  dazzled  by  perfection's  blaze — 
But  if  thou  still  delay,  for  long  regret  prepare. 


PETRARCH 


Se  lamentar  augelli,  o  verdi  frondo. 


IP  to  the  sighing  breeze  of  summer-hours 

Bend  the  green  leaves;  if  mourns  a  plaintive  bird: 

Or  from  some  fount's  cold  margin,  fringed  wit.j 

flowers, 
The  soothing  murmur  of  the  wave  is  heard ; 

Her,  whom  the  heavens  reveal,  the  earth  denies, 
I  see  and  hear  :  though  dwelling  far  above, 
Her  spirit,  still  responsive  to  my  sighs. 
Visits  the  lone  retreat  of  pensive  love. 

"Why  thus  in  grief  consume  each  fruitless  day," 
(Her  gentle  accents  thus  divinely  say.) 
"While  from  thine  eyes  the  tear  unceasing  flowif 
Weep  not  for  me,  who,  hastening  on  my  flight, 
Died,  to  be  deathless;  and  on  Heavenly  light 
Whose  eyes  but  open'd,   when  they  seein'd  t* 
close  I" 

VERSI  SPAGNUOLI  DI  PIETRO  BEMBO. 


O  Muerte  !  que  ituta  XT. 


TROD,  the  stern  monarch  of  dismay, 
Whom  Nature  trembles  to  survey, 
Oh  Death  !  to  me,  the  child  of  grief, 
Thy  welcome  power  would  bring  relief, 

Changing  to  peaceful  slumber  many  a  care. 
And  though  thy  stroke  may  thrill  with  pain 
Each  throbbing  pulse,  each  quivering  vein; 
The  pangs  that  bid  existence  close, 
All!  sure  ;irv  far  less  keen  than  those 

Which  cloud  its  lingering  moments  with  despair 


FRANCESCO  LORENZINI 


0  Zeflretto,  che  movendo  vai 


SYLPH  of  the  breeze!  whose  dewy  pinions  light 
Wave  gently  round  the  tree  I  planted  here, 
Sacred  to  her,  whose  soul  hath  wins'd  its  flight 
To  the  pure  ether  of  her  lofty  sphere; 

Be  it  thy  care,  soft  spirit  of  the  gale  1 
To  fan  its  leaves  in  summer's  noontide  hour; 
Be  it  thy  care,  that  wintry  tempests  fail 
To  rend  its  honors  from  the  sylvan  bower. 

Then  shall  it  spread,  and  rear  th'  aspiring  form, 
Pride  of  the  wood,  secure  from  every  storm 
Graced  with  her  name,  a  consecrated  tree! 
So  may  thy  lord,  the  monarch  of  the  wind, 
Ne'er  with  rude  chains  by  tender  pinions  bin£, 
But  grant  thee  still  to  rove,  a  wanderer  wild  and 
free! 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


63 


GESSNER. 
MORNING   SONG. 


WiHkonimen,  fruhe  morgensoDD. 


HAIL!  morning  sun,  thus  early  bright; 
Welcome,  sweet  dawn  !  thou  younger  day! 
Through  the  dark  woods  that  fringe  the  height 
Beams  forth,  e'en  now,  the  ray. 

Bright  on  the  dew,  it  sparkles  clear, 

Bright  on  the  water's  glittering  fall, 

And  life,  and  joy,  and  health  appear. 

Sweet  morning!  at  thy  call. 

Now  thy  fresh  breezes  lightly  spring 
From  beds  of  fragrance,  where  they  lay, 
And  roving  wild  on  dewy  wing, 
Drive  slumber  far  away. 

Fantastic  dreams,  in  swift  retreat, 
Now  from  each  mi  ml  withdraw  their  spell, 
While  the  young  loves  delighted  meet, 
On  Rosa's  cheek  to  dwell. 

Speed,  zephyr!  kiss  each  opening  flower, 
Its  fragrant  spirit  make  thine  own  , 
Then  wing  thy  way  to  Rosa's  bower, 
Ere  hpr  light  sleep  is  flown. 

Then  o'er  her  downy  pillow,  fly. 
Wake  the  sweet  maid  to  life  and  day; 
Breathe  on  her  balmy  lip  a  sigh,  , 

And  o'er  her  bosom  play; 

And  whisper  whpn  her  eyes  unveil. 
That  I,  since  morning's  earliest  call, 
Have  sigh'd  her  name  to  every  gale, 
By  the  lone  waterfall. 

GERMAN  SONG. 

Midchen,  lermet  Amor  kennen. 

LISTEN,  fair  maid,  my  song  shall  tell 
How  Love  may  still  be  known  full  well. 

His  looks  the  traitor  prove; 
Dost  thou  not  see  that  absent  smile. 
That  fiory  glanre  replete  with  guile? 

Oh  !  doubt  not  then— 't  is  Love. 

When  varying  still  the  sly  disguise, 
Child  of  caprice,  he  laughs  and  cries, 

Or  with  complaint  would  move: 
To-day  is  bold,  to-morrow  shy, 
Changing  each  hour  he  knows  not  why. 

Oh  !  doubt  not  then— 't  is  Love. 

There's  magic  in  his  every  wile, 
His  lips,  well  practised  to  beguile, 

Breathe  roses  when  they  move  ; 
See  now  with  sudden  rage  he  burns, 
Disdains,  implores,  commands,  by  turns; 

Oh!  doubt  not  then— 'tis  Love. 

He  comes— without  the  bow  and  dart, 
That  spare  not  e'en  the  purest  heart; 

His  looks  the  traitor  prove; 
That  glance  is  fire,  that  mien  is  guile, 
Deceit  is  lurking  in  that  smile, 

Oh!  trust  him  not— 'tis  Love? 


CHAULIEU. 

Grotte,  d'ou  wrt  ce  clair  ruiseeau. 

Tnon  grot,  whence  flows  this  limpid  spring. 
Its  margin  fringed  with  moss  and  flowers, 
Still  bid  its  voice  of  murmurs  bring 
Peace  to  my  musing  hours. 

Sweet  Fontenay  !  where  first  for  me 
The  day-spring  of  existence  rose, 
Soon  shall  my  dust  return  to  thee, 
And  'midst  my  sires  repose. 

Muses,  that  watch'd  my  childhood's  morn, 
'Midst  these  wild  haunts,  with  guardian  eye, 
Fair  trees,  that  there  beheld  me  born, 
Soon  shall  ye  see  me  die. 


GARCILASO  DE  LA  VEGA 

Coged  de  vuettra  ilegre  priroavera. 

ENJOY  the  sweets  of  life's  luxuriant  May, 
Ere  envious  Age  is  hastening  on  its  way. 
With  snowy  wreaths  to  crown  the  beauteous  brow; 
The  rose  will  fade  when  storms  assail  the  year, 
And  Time,  who  changeth  not  his  swift  career. 
Constant  in  this,  will  change  all  else  below  I 


LINES 

WRITTEN   IN   A  HERMITAGE  ON  THE  SEA-SHORK 

O  WANDERER  !  would  thy  heart  forget 

Each  earthly  passion  and  regret, 

And  would  thy  wearied  spirit  rise 

To  commune  with  its  native  skies; 

Pause  for  awhile,  and  deem  it  sweet 

To  linger  in  this  calm  retreat; 
And  give  thy  cares,  thy  griefs,  a  short  suspense. 
Amidst  wild  scenes  of  lone  magnificence. 

Unmix'd  with  aught  of  meaner  tone. 
Here  nature's  voice  is  heard  alone: 
When  the  loud  storm,  in  wrathful  hour, 
Is  rushing  on  its  wing  of  power, 
And  spirits  of  the  deep  awake,  • 

And  surges  foam,  and  billows  break, 
And  rocks  and  ocean-caves  around, 
Reverberate  each  awful  sound; 
That  mighty  voice,  with  all  its  dread  control, 
To  loftiest  thought  shall  wake  thy  thrilling  sou] 

But  when  no  more  the  sea-winds  rave. 
When  peace  is  brooding  on  the  wave, 
And  from  earth,  air,  and  ocean,  rise 
No  sounds  but  plaintive  melodies; 
Soothed  by  their  softly  mingling  swell, 
As  daylight  bids  the  world  farewell, 
The  rustling  wood,  the  dying  breeze, 
The  faint,  low  rippling  of  the  seas, 
A  tender  calm  shall  steal  upon  thy  breast, 
A  gleam  reflected  from  the  realms  of  rest. 

Is  thine  a  heart  the  world  hath  stung, 
Friends  have  deceived,  neglect  hath  wrung? 
Hast  thou  some  grief  that  none  may  know 
Some  lonely,  secret,  silent  woe? 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Or  have  thy  fond  affections  fled 
From  earth,  to  slumber  with  the  dead? 
Oh!  pause  awhile — the  world  disown, 
And  dwell  with  Nature's  self  alonel 
•\nd  though  no  more  she  bids  arise 
Thy  soul's  departed  energies, 
And  though  thy  joy  of  life  is  o'er, 
Beyond  her  magic  to  restore; 
Yet  shall  her  spells  o'er  every  passion  steal, 
And  soothe  the  wounded  heart  they  cannot  heal 


DIRGE  OF  A  CHILD. 


No  bitter  tears  for  thee  be  shed, 
Blossom  of  being!  seen  and  gone! 
With  flowers  alone  we  strew  thy  bed, 

O  blest  departed  One  I 
Whose  all  of  life,  a  rosy  ray, 
Blush'd  into  dawn,  and  pass'd  away. 

Yes!  thou  art  fled,  ere  guilt  had  power 
To  stain  thy  cherub-soul  and  form. 
Closed  is  the  soft  ephemeral  flower, 

That  never  felt  a  storm ! 
The  sunbeam's  smile,  the  zephyr's  breath, 
All  that  it  knew  from  birth  to  death. 

Thou  wert  so  like  a  Ibrm  of  light. 

That  Heaven  benignly  called  thee  hence, 

Ere  yet  the  world  could  breathe  one  blight 

O'er  thy  sweet  innocence: 
And  thou,  that  brighter  home  to  bless, 
Art  pass'd  with  all  thy  loveliness! 

Oh!  hadst  thou  still  on  earth  remain'd, 

Vision  of  beauty!  fair,  as  brief! 

How  soon  thy  brightness  had  been  stain'd 

With  passion  or  with  grief! 
Now  not  a  sullying  breath  can  rise, 
To  dim  thy  glory  in  the  skies. 

We  rear  no  marble  o'er  thy  tomfc, 

No  sculptured  image  there  shall  mourn ; 

Ah!  fitter  for  the  vernal  bloom 

Such  dwelling  to  adorn. 
Fragrance,  and  flowers,  and  dews,  must  ta 
The  only  emblems  meet  for  thee. 

Thy  grave  shall  be  a  blessed  shrine, 
Adornld  with  Nature's  brightest  wreath, 
Each  glowing  season  shall  combine 

Its  incense  there  to  breathe ; 
And  oft,  upon  the  midnight  air, 
Shall  viewless  harps  be  murmuring  there. 

And  oh!  sometimes  in  visions  blest, 

Sweet  spirit!  visit  our  repose. 

And  bear  from  thine  own  world  of  rest, 

Some  balm  for  human  woes  I 
What  form  more  lovely  could  be  given 
Than  thine,  to  messenger  of  heaven  ? 


INVOCATION. 


HCSH'D  is  the  world  in  night  and  sleep, 
Earth,  Sea,  and  Air,  are  still  as  death; 
Too  rude  to  weak  a  calm  so  deep, 
Were  music's  faintest  breath, 
Descend,  bright  Visions!  from  aerial  bowers, 
Descend  to  gild  your  own  soft,  silent  hours. 

'T  hope  or  fear,  in  toil  or  pain, 

The  weary  day  have  mortals  past, 

Now,  dreams  of  bliss,  be  yours  to  reign, 

And  all  your  spells  around  them  cast; 

Stea"  from  their  hearts  the  pang,  their  eyes  the 

tear, 

And  lift  the  veil  that  hides  a  brighter  sphere. 
Oh !  bear  your  softest  balm  to  those. 
Who  fondly,  vainly,  mourn  the  dead. 
To  them  that  world  of  peace  disclose, 

Whore  the  bright  soul  is  fled: 


Where  Love,  immortal  in  his  native  clime, 
Shall  fear  no  pang  from  fate,  no  blight  from  time. 

Or  to  his  loved,  his  distant  land, 

On  your  light  wings  the  exile  bear; 

To  feel  once  more  his  heart  expand, 

In  his  own  genial  mountain-air; 
Hear  the  wild  echoes  well-known  strains  repeat, 
And  bless  each  note,  as  heaven's  own  music  sweet, 

But  oh!  with  Fancy's  brightest  ray, 
Blest  dreams!  the  bard's  repose  illume  ; 
Bid  forms  of  heaven  around  him  play, 

And  bowers  of  Eden  bloom  ! 
And  waft  Ma  spirit  to  its  native  skies, 
Who  finds  no  charm  in  life's  realities. 

No  voice  is  on  the  air  of  night, 
Through  folded  leaves  no  murmurs  creep, 
Nor  star  nor  moonbeam's  trembling  light 
Falls  on  the  placid  brow  of  sleep. 
Descend,  bright  visions,  from  your  airy  bower, 
Dark,  silent,  solemn,  is  your  favourite  hour. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OP 
GENERAL  SIR  EDWARD  PACKENHAM 


BRAVE  spirit!  mourn'd  with  fond  regret, 
Lost  in  life's  pride,  in  valour's  noon, 
Oh!  who  could  deem  thy  star  should  set 
So  darkly  and  so  soon  ? 

Fatal,  though  bright,  the  fire  of  mind. 
Which  inaric'd  and  closed  thy  brief  career, 
And  the  fair  wreath,  by  Hope  entwined, 
Lies  wither'd  on  thy  bier. 

The  soldier's  death  hath  been  thy  doom, 
The  soldier's  tear  thy  meed  shall  be, 
Yet,  son  of  war!  a  prouder  tomb 

Misht  Fate  have  r^ar'd  for  thee. 

Thou  shouldst  have  died,  O  high-soul'd  chief 
In  those  bright  days  of  glory  fled, 
When  triumph  so  prevail'do'er  prief, 

We  scarce  could  mourn  the  dead. 

Noontide  of  fame  1  each  tear-drop  then 
Was  worthy  of  a  warrior's  grave — 
When  shall  affection  weep  again 
So  proudly  o'er  the  brave  ? 

There,  on  the  battle-fields  of  Spain, 
'Midst  Roncesvalles'  mountain-scene, 
Or  on  Vittoria's  blood-red  plain, 

Meet  had  thy  death-bed  been. 

We  mourn  not  that  a  hero's  life. 
Thus  in  its  ardent  prime  should  close; 
Hadst  thou  but  fallen  in  nobler  strife. 
But  died  'midst  conquer'd  foes! 

Yet  hast  thou  still  (though  victory's  flane 
In  that  last  moment  cheer'd  thee  not) 
Left  Glory's  isle  another  name, 

That  ne'er  may  be  forgot : 
And  many  a  tale  of  triumph  won 
Shall  breathe  that  name  in  Memory's  ear 
And  long  may  England  mourn  a  son 

Without  reproach  or  fear. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OP 
SIR   HENRY    E—  LL— S 

WHO  FELL  IN  THI  BATTLE   OF  WATERLOO 


WBEP'ST  thou  for  him  whose  doom  was  scal'd 
On  England's  proudest  battle-field  ? 
For  him,  the  lion-heart,  who  died 
In  victory's  full,  resistless  tide? 
Oh!  mourn  him  not. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


By  deeds  like  his  that  fluid  was  won, 

And  Fate  could  yield  to  Valor's  son 

No  brighter  lot. 

He  heard  his  band's  exulting  cry. 
He  saw  the  vanquished  eagles  fly; 
And  envied  be  his  death  of  fame. 
It  shed  a  sunbeam  o'er  his  name,  • 

That  naught  shall  dim- 
No  cloud  obscured  his  glory's  day. 
It  iaw  no  twilight  of  decay—     * 

Weep  not  for  him  I 

And  breathe  no  dirge's  plaintive  moan, 
A  hero  claims  far  loftier  tone  I 
Oli !  proudly  should  the  war-song  swell, 
Recording  how  the  mighty  fell 

In  that  dread  hour. 

When  England,  'midst  the  battle-storm, 
I'll'  avenging  angel — rear'd  her  form 

In  tenfold  power. 

Yet,  gallant  heart!  to  swell  thy  praise, 
Vain  were  the  minstrel's  noblest  lays; 
Since  he.  the  soldier's  guiding-star, 
The  victor-chief,  the  lord  of  war, 

Has  own'd  thy  fame  : 
And  oh !  like  hit  approving  word. 
What  trophied  marble  could  record 

A  warrior's  name  ! 


GUERILLA    SONG 


on  the  »tory  related  of  the  Spanish  P»tnot,  Mimu 


On  !  forget  not  the  hour,  when  through  forest  and 

vale. 

We  retiirn'd  with  our  chief  to  his  dear  native  halls; 
Through  the  woody  Sierra  there  sigh'd  not  a  gale, 
And  (he  moonbeam  was  bright  on  his  battlement- 
walls  ; 

Anil  Nature  lay  sleeping,  in  calmness  and  light, 
Hound  the  home  of  the  valiant,  that  rose  on  our 
sight. 

We  enter'd  lhat  home— all  was  loneliness  round, 
Tlir  stillness,  the  darkness,  the  peace  of  the  grave; 
Not  a  voice,  not  a  step,  bade  its  echoes  resound, 
Ah  .  such  was  the  welcome  that  waited  the  brave  I 
Por  the  spoilers  had  pass'd,  like  the  poison-wind's 

breath. 
And  the  loved  of  his  bosom  lay  silent  in  death. 

Oh  !  forget  n-jt  that  hour— let  its  image  be  near, 
In  the  light  of  our  mirth,  in  the  dreams  of  our  rest, 
Let  its  tale  awake  feelings  too  deep  for  a  tear, 
And   rouse   into  vengeance  each  arm   and  each 

breast, 

Till  cloudless  the  day-spring  of  liberty  shine 
O'er  the  plains  of  the  olive,  and  hills  of  the  vine 


THE  AGED  INDIAN 


WARRIORS  !  my  noon  of  life  is  past, 
The  brightness  of  my  spirit  flown  ; 
1  crouch  before  the  wintry  blast, 
Amidst  my  tribe  1  dwell  alone; 
The  heroes  of  my  youth  are  fled. 
They  rest  among  the  warlike  dead. 

Ye  slumberers  of  the  narrow  cave! 

My  kindred-chiefs  in  days  of  yore, 

Ye  fill  an  unremember'd  grave, 

Your  fame,  your  deeds,  are  known  no  more 

The  records  of  your  wars  are  pone, 

Your  names  forgot  by  all  but  one. 

Soon  shall  that  one  depart  from  earth, 
To  join  the  brethren  of  his  prime; 
Then  will  the  memory  of  your  birth 
Bleep  with  the  hidden  things  of  timel 
With  him,  ye  sons  of  former  days  ! 
Fades  the  last  glimmering  of  your  praise. 


His  eyes,  that  hail'd  your  spirit's  flame, 
Still  kindling  in  the  combat's  shock, 
Have  seen,  since  darkness  veil'd  your  fame, 
Sous  of  the  desert  and  the  rock  I 
Another,  and  another  race, 
Rise  to  the  battle,  and  the  chase. 

Descendants  of  the  mighty  dead  ! 
Fearless  of  heart,  and  firm  of  handt 
Oh!  let  me  join  their  spirits  fled, 
Oh  !  send  me  to  their  shadowy  land. 
Age  hath  not  tamed  Ontara's  heart, 
He  shrinks  not  from  the  friendly  dart. 

These  feet  no  more  can  chase  the  deer. 
The  glory  of  this  arm  is  flown — 
Why  should  the  feeble  linger  here, 
When  all  the  pride  of  life  is  gone  ? 
Warriors!  why  still  the  stroke  deny, 
Think  ye  Ontara  fears  to  die  ? 

He  fear'd  not  in  his  flower  of  days. 
When  strong  to  stem  the  torrent's  force. 
When  through  the  desert's  pathless  maze 
His  way  was  as  an  eagle's  course  ! 
When  war  was  sunshine  to  his  sight. 
And  the  wild  hurricane,  delight  1 

Shall  then  the  warrior  tremble  now? 
Now  when  his  envied  strength  is  o'er 7 
Hung  on  the  pine  his  idle  bow, 
His  pirogue  useless  on  the  shore? 
When  death  hath  dimm'd  his  failing  eye, 
Shall  lie,  the  joyless,  fear  to  die  ? 

Sons  of  the  brave!  delay  no  more, 
The  spirits  of  my  kindred  call  I 
'T  is  but  one  pang,  and  all  is  o'er  I 
Oh !  bid  the  aged  cedar  fall  I 
To  join  the  brethren  of  his  prime. 
The  mighty  of  departed  time. 

EVENING  AMONGST  THE  ALPS. 


SOFT  skies  of  Italy!  how  richly  drest, 
Smile  these  wild  scenes  in  your  purpureal  glow; 
What  glorious  hues,  reflected  from  the  west. 
Float  o'er  the  dwellings  of  eternal  snow  1 

Yon  torrent,  foaming  down  the  granite  ,-teep. 
Sparkles  all  brilliance  in  the  setting  beam  ; 
Dark  glens  beneath  in  shadowy  beauty  sleep, 
Where  pi pes  the  goat-herd  by  his  mountain-stream 

Now  from  yon  peak  departs  the  vivid  ray, 
That  still  at  eve  its  lofty  temple  knows; 
From  rock  and  torrent  fade  tlie  tints  away, 
And  all  is  wrapt  in  twilight's  deep  repose  ; 
While  through  the  pine- wood  gleams  the  vesper 

star. 
And  roves  the  Alpine  gale  o'er  solitudes  afar. 


DIRGE  OF  THE  HIGHLAND  CHIEF  IN 
"  WAVERLEY." 


Son  of  the  mighty  and  the  free  ! 
High-minded  Jeader  of  the  bravel" 
Was  it  for  lofly  chief  like  thee. 

To  fill  a  nameless  grave  1 
Oh!  if,  amidst  the  valiant  slain, 
The  warrior's  bier  had  been  thy  lot. 
E'en  though  on  red  Culloden's  plain. 

We  then  had  mourn' d  thee  not 

But  darkly  closed  thy  dawn  of  fame. 
That  dawn  whose  sunbeam  rose  so  fair; 
Vengeance  alone  may  breathe  thy  name, 

The  watchword  of  Despair  I 
Yet  oh  !  if  gallant  spirit's  power 
Had  e'er  ennobled  death  like  thine. 
Then  glory  mark'd  thy  parting  hour. 

Last  of  a  mighty  line) 


(55 


HEMANS*  POETICAL  AVOKKS. 


C'er  thy  own  towers  the  sunshine  falls, 
But  cannot  chase  their  silent  irlooni ; 
Those  beams,  that  gild  thy  native  walls, 

Are  sleeping  on  thy  tomb; 
Spring  on  thy  mountains  laughs  the  while, 
Thy  green  woods  wave  in  vernal  air, 
But  the  loved  scenes  may  vainly  smile — 

Not  e'en  thy  dust  is  there. 

On  thy  blue  hills  no  bugle-sound 
Is  mingling  with  the  torrent's  roar, 
Unmark'd  the  wild  deer  sport  around— 

Thou  lead'st  thp.  chase  no  more! 
Thy  gates  are  closed,  thy  halls  are  still, 
Those  halls  where  peal'd  the  choral  strain, 
They  hear  the  wind's  deep  murmuring  thrill- 

And  all  is  hush'd  again. 

No  banner  from  the  lonely  tower 
Shall  wave  its  blaznn'd  folds  on  high  ; 
There  the  tall  grass  and  summer  flower 

Unmark'd  shall  spring  and  die. 
No  more  thy  bard,  for  other  ear, 
Shall  wake  the  harp  once  loved  by  thine— 
Hush'd  he  the  strain  thnu  canst  not  hear, 

Last  of  a  mighty  line  I 


THE  CRUSADER'S  WAR-SONG 


CHIEFTAINS,  lead  on  !  our  hearts  beat  high, 

Lead  on  to  Salem's  towers! 
Who  would  not  deem  it  bliss  to  die, 

Slain  in  a  cause  like  ours? 
The  brave  who  sleep  in  soil  of  thine, 
Lie  not  entomb'd,  but  shrined,  O  Palestine; 

Souls  of  the  slain  in  holy  war! 

Look  from  your  sainted  rest! 
Tell  us  ye  rose  in  Glory's  car. 

To  mingle  with  the  blest; 
Tell  us  how  short  the  death-pane's  power, 
How  bright  the  joys  of  your  immortal  bower 

Strike  the  loud  harp,  ye  minstrel  train  I 

Pour  forth  your  loftiest  lays; 
Each  heart  shall  echo  to  the  strain 

Breathed  in  the  warrior's  praise. 
Rid  every  string  triumphant  swell 
Tli'  inspiring  sounds  that  heroes  love  so  well. 

Salem  !  amidst  the  fiercest  hour 

The  wildest  rage  of  nirht. 
Thy  name  shall  lend  our  falchions  power. 

And  nerve  our  hearts  with  might. 
Envied  be  those  for  thee  that  fall. 
Who  find  their  graves  beneath  thy  sacred  wall. 

For  them  no  need  that  sculptured  tomb 

Should  chronicle  their  fame, 
Or  Pyramid  record  their  doom, 

Or  deathless  verse  their  name; 
It  is  enough  that  dust  of  thine 
Should  shroud  their  forms,  O  blessed  Palestine! 

Chieftains,  lead  on  !  our  hearts  beat  high 

For  combat's  glorious  hour; 
Soon  shalHhe  red-cross  banner  fly 

On  Salem's  loftiest  tower! 
We  burn  to  mingle  in  the  strife. 
Where  but  to  die  insures  eternal  life 


THE 


DEATH   OF    CLANRONALD. 


It  was  in  the  battle  of  Sherift'mnor  that  young  Clar- 
ronald  fell,  leading  on  the  Highlanders  of  the  right  wing. 
His  death  dispirited  the  assailants,  who  began  to  waver. 
But  Glengnry,  chief  of  a  rival  branch  of  the  Clan  Colla, 
started  from  the  ranks,  and,  waving  his  bonnet  round  hii 
head,  cried  out,  "  To-day  fo;  revenge  and  to-morrow  for 
mourning!"  The  Highlanders  received  a  new  impulse 
from  his  words,  and,  charging  with  redoubled  fury,  bore 
down  all  before  them. — See  the  Quarterly  Review,  ar- 
ticle of  "  Cullodcn  Papers." 


On!  ne'er  be  Clanronald  the  valiant  forgot! 
Still  f.  urless  and  first  in  the  combat,  he  fell; 
But  we  paused  not  one  tear-drop  to  shed  o'er  the 

spot, 

We  spared  not  one  moment  to  murmur  "Farewell." 
We  heard  hut  the  battle-word  given  by  the  chief. 
"Tii-day  for  revenge,  arid  to-morrow  for  grief!" 

And  wildly,  Clanronald  !  we  echoed  the  vow, 
With  the  tear  on  our  cheek,  and  the  sword  in  our 

hand  ; 
Young  son  of  the  brave!  we  may  weep  for  thee 

now. 

For  well  has  thy  death  been  avenged  by  thy  band, 
When  they  join'd  in  wild  chorus  the  cry  of  the 

chief, 
•'To-day  for  revenge,  and  to-morrow  for  grief!" 

Thy  dirge  in  that  hour,  was  the  bugle's  wild  call. 
The  clash  of  the  claymore,  the  shout  of  the  brave 
But  now  thy  own  bard  may  lament  for  thy  fall. 
And  the  soft  voice  of  melody  sigh  o'er  thy  grave, 
While  Alliyn  remembers  the  words  of  the  chi<  f, 
"To-day  for  revenge,  and  to-morrow  for  grief!" 

Thou  art  fallen,  O  fearless  one  !  flower  of  thy  race 
Descendant  of  heroes!  thy  glory  is  set! 
But  thy  kindred,  the  sons  of  the  battle  and  chase, 
Have  proved  that  thy  spirit  is  bright  in  them  yell 
Nor  vainly  have  echoed  the  words  of  the  chief, 
"To  day  for  revenge,  and  to-morrow  for  grief  1" 


TO  THE   EYE. 


THRONE  of  expression  !  whence  the  spirit's  ray 
Pours  forth  BO  oft  the  light  of  mental  day, 
Where  fancy's  fire,  affection's  melting  beam, 
Thought,  genius,  passion,  reign  in  turn  supreme, 
And  many  a  feeling,  words  can  ne'er  impart. 
Finds  its  own  language  to  pervado  the  heart; 
Thy  power,  bright  orb,  what  bosom  halh  not  felt, 
To  thrill,  to  rouse,  to  fascinate,  to  melt  ? 
And  by  some  spell  of  undefined  control. 
With  magnet-influence  touch  the  secret  soul! 

Light  of  the  features  !  in  the  morn  of  youth 
Thy  glance  is  nature,  and  thy  language,  truth: 
And  ere  the  world,  with  all-corrupting  sway, 
Hath  taught  e'en  t/tee  to  Hatter  and  betray, 
Tlf  ingenuous  heart  forbids  thee  to  reveal, 
Orspeak  one  thought  that  interest  would  conceal; 
While  yet  thou  seem'st  the  cloudless  mirror,  givon 
But  to  reflect  the  purity  of  heaven  ; 
Oh!  then  how  lovely,  there  tinveil'd  to  trace 
Th'  unsullied  brightness  of  each  mental  grace 

When  genius  lends  thee  all  his  living  light, 
Where  the  full  beams  of  intellect  unite, 
When  love  illumes  thee  with  his  varying  ray, 
Where  trembling  Hope  and  tearful  Rapture  play; 
Or  Pity's  melting  cloud  thy  beam  subdues, 
Tempering  its  lustre  with  a  vale  of  dews; 
Still  does  thy  power,  whose  all-cnnmianding  spelF 
C;wi  pierce  the  mazes  of  the  soul  so  well. 
Rid  some  new  feeling  to  existence  start, 
From  its  deep  slumbers  in  t.h»  inmost  heart. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS 


er 


\m\  oh!  when  thought,  in  ecstasy  sublime. 
That  soars  triumphant  o'er  the  bounds  of  time, 
Fires  thy  keen  glance  with  inspiration's  blaze, 
The  light  of  heaven,  the  hope  of  nobler  days, 
(As  glorious  dreams,  for  utterance  far  too  high, 
Flash  through  the  mist  of  dim  mortality;) 
Who  does  not  own,  that  through  thy  lightning 

beams 

A  flame  unquenchable,  unearthly,  streams? 
That  pure,  though  captive  effluence  of  the  sky, 
The  vestal-ray,  the  spark  that  cannot  die ; 


THE  HERO'S  DEATH 


LIFE'S  parting  beams  were  in  his  eye, 
Life's  closing  accents  on  his  tongue. 
When  round  him,  pealing  to  the  sky, 

The  shout  of  victory  rung  ', 
Then,  ere  his  gallant  spirit  fled, 
A  smile  so  bright  illumed  his  face — 
Oh!  never,  of  the  light  it  shed, 

Shall  memory  lose  a  trace ! 

His  was  a  death,  whose  rapture  high 
Transcended  all  that  life  could  yield; 
His  warmest  prayer  was  so  to  die, 

On  the  red  battle-field  ! 
And  they  may  feel,  who  loved  him  most, 
A  pride  so  holy  and  so  pure — 
Fate  hath  no  power  o'er  those  who  boast 

A  treasure  thus  secure  I 

STANZAS 

On  ike  late  National  Calamity,  the  Death  of  tki 
Princess  Charlotte. 


"Helag!  nous  composing  son  histoire  de  tout  c* 

qu'on  p«ut  imaginer  de  plus  glorieux Le  passe  et  le 

presentnous  garantissoient  I'avenir Telleeioitl'agre- 

ohle  hieloirn  quo  nous  faisions ;  et  pour  achever  ces 
nnlilra  pr<>ji!t8,  il  n'y  avoit  que  la  duree  de  ea  vie  ;  dont 
nmig  ne  croycms  pas  devoir  etre  en  peine,  car,  qui  eut  pu 
seulf  men!  penser,  que  les  annees  eussent  du  manquer  a 
un  jeunesse  qui  sembluitsi  vivel" Bussuct. 


MARK'D  ye  the  mingling  of  the  city's  throng, 
Each  mien,  each  glance,  with  expectation  bright  ? 
Prepare  the  pageant  and  the  choral  song. 
The  pealing  chimes,  the  blaze  of  festal  light 
And  hark !  what  rumour's  gathering  sound  is  nigh  ? 
Is  it  the  voice  of  joy,  that  murmur  deep? 
Away,  be  hush'd  !  ye  sounds  of  revelry  1 
Back  to  your  homes,  ye  multitudes,  to  weep! 
Weep !  for  the  storm  hath  o'er  us  darkly  past, 
And  England's  royal  flower  is  broken  by  the  blast  I 

II. 

Wa*  it  a  dream  ?  so  sudden  and  so  dread 
That  nwful  flat  o'er  our  senses  came  ! 
So  loved,  so  hlest,  is  that  young  spirit  fled. 
Whose  early  grandeur  promised  years  of  fame  ? 
Oh!  when  hath  life  possess'd,  or  death  destroy'd. 
More  lovely  hopes,  more  cloudlessly  that  smiled? 
When  hath  the  spoiler  left  so  dark  a  void  I 
For  all  is  lost— the  mother  and  her  child ' 
Our  morning-star  hath  vanish'd,  and  the  tomb 
Throws    its    deep-lengthen'd    shade  o'er    distant 
years  to  come. 


III. 

Angel  of  Death !  did  no  presaging  sign 
Announce  thy  coining,  and  thy  way  prepare? 
No  warning  voice,  no  harbinger,  was  thine, 
Danger  and  fearseem'd  past — but  thou  wert  there! 
Prophetic  sounds  along  the  earthquake's  path 
Foretell  the  hour  of  Nature's  awful  throes; 
And  the  volcano,  ere  it  burst  in  wrath. 
Sends  forth  some  herald  from  its  dread  repose: 
But  t/iuii,  dark  Spirit!  swift  and  unforeseen, 
Cain'st  like  the  lightning's  flash,  when  heaven  i» 
all  serene. 

IV. 

And  she  is  gone— the  royal  and  the  young, 
In  soul  commanding,  and  in  heart  benign  ; 
Who,  from  a  race  of  Kings  and  Heroes  sprung, 
Glow'd  with  a  spirit  lofty  as  hur  line. 
Now  may  the  voice  she  loved  on  earth  so  well, 
Breathe  forth  her  name,  unheeded  and  in  vain  ; 
Nor  can  those  eyes  on  which  her  own  would  dwell 
Wake  from  the  breast  one  sympathy  again  : 
The  ardent  heart,  the  towering  mind  are  fled. 
Yet  shall  undying  love  still  linger  with  the  dead. 

V. 

Oh !  many  a  bright  existence  we  have  seen 
Uuendi'd  in  the  glow  and  fullness  of  its  prime; 
And  many  a  cherish'd  flower,  ere  now,  hath  been 
Cropt,  ere  its  leaves  were  breathed  upon  by  time 
We  have  lost  Heroes  in  their  noon  of  pride, 
Whose  fields  of  triumph  gave  them  but  a  bier; 
And  we  have  wept  when  soaring  Genius  died, 
Check'd  in  the  glory  of  his  mid  career! 
But  here  our  hopes  were  centred— all  is  o'er, 
AH  thought  in  this  absorb'd— she  was— and  is  no 
more  I 

VI. 

We  watch'd  her  childhood  from  its  earliest  hoar. 
From  every  word  and  look  blest  omens  caught; 
While  that  young  mind  developed  all  its  power. 
An!  rose  to  energies  of  loftiest  thought. 
On  her  was  fix'd  the  Patriot's  ardent  eye, 
One  hope  still  bloom'd — one  vista  still  was  fair; 
And  when  the  tempest  swept  the  troubled  sky. 
She  was  our  day-spring— all  was  cloudless  t./iere; 
And  oh!  how  lovely  broke  on  England's  gaze. 
E'en  through  the  mist  and  storm,  the  light  of  dis- 
tant days. 

VII. 

Now  hath  one  moment  darken'd  future  years, 
And  changed  the  track  of  ages  yet  to  be  ! — 
Yet,  mortal !  'midst  the  bitterness  of  tears, 
Kneel,  and  adore  th' inscrutable  decree  I 
Oh  !  while  the  clear  perspective  smiled  in  light. 
Wisdom  should  then  have  temper'd  hope's  excess, 
And,  lost  One!  when  we  saw  thy  lot  so  bright, 
We  might  have  trembled  at  its  loveliness, 
Joy  is  no  earthly  flower— nor  framed  to  bear, 
In  its  exotic  bloom,  life's  cold,  ungenial  air. 

VIII. 

All  smiled  around  thee—  Youth,  and  Love,  and 

Praise, 

Hearts  all  devotion  and  all  truth  were  thine  I 
On  thee  was  riveted  a  nation's  gaze, 
As  on  some  radiant  and  unsullied  shrine. 
Heiress  of  empires!  thou  art  pass'd  away. 
Like  some  fair  vision  that  arose  to  throw, 
O'er  one  brief  hour  of  life,  a  fleeting  ray, 
Then  leave  the  rest  to  solitude  and  woe ! 
Oh!  who  shall  dare  to  woo  such  dreams  again! 
Who  hath  not  wept  to  know,  that  tears  for  the* 

were  vain  I 

IX. 

Yet  there  is  one  who  loved  thee — and  whose  sou. 

With  mild  affections  nature  form'd  to  melt; 

His  mind  hath  bow'd  beneath  the  stern  control 

Of  many  a  grief— but  this  shall  he  unfelt! 

Years  have  gone  by — and  given  his  honor'd  heal 

A  diadem  of  snow — his  eye  is  dim — 

Around  him  Heaven  a  solemn  cloud  hath  spread, 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  past,  the  future,  arc  a  dream  to  him! 
Yet  in  the  darkness  of  his  fate,  alone 
He  dwells  on  earth,  while  t  lou,  in  life's  full  pride, 
art  gone  I 

X. 

The  Chastener'g  hand  is  on  us— we  may  weep. 
But  not  repine — for  many  a  storm  hath  past, 
And,  pillow'd  on  her  own  majestic  deep. 
Hath  England  slept,  unshaken  by  the  blast ! 
And  war  hath  raged  o'er  many  a  distant  plain, 
Trampling  the  vine  and  olive  in  his  path; 
While  she,  that  regal  daughter  of  the  main. 
Smiled,  in  swene  defiance  of  his  wrath  ; 
As  some  proud  summit,  mingling  with  the  sky. 
Hears  calmly  far  below  the  thunders  roll  and  die. 

XI. 

Her  voice  hath  been  th'  awakener — and  her  name, 

The  gathering- word  of  nations — in  her  might 

And  all  the  awful  beauty  of  her  fame. 

Apart  she  dwelt,  in  solitary  light. 

High  on  her  cliffs,  alone  and  firm  she  stood. 

Fixing  the  torch  upon  her  beacon-tower; 

That  torch,  whose  flume,  far  streaming  o'er  th« 

flood, 

Hath  guided  Europe  through  her  darkest  hour! — 
Away,  vain  dreams  of  glory  !  in  the  dust 
Be  humbled,  ocean-queen  !  and  own  thy  sentence 

just! 

XII. 

Hark  !  't  was  the  death-bell's  note !  which  full  an i 

deep, 

Unmix'd  with  aught  of  less  majestic  tone, 
While  all  the  murmurs  of  existence  sleep, 
Swells  on  the  stillness  of  the  air  alone! 
Silen'.  the  throngs  that  fill  the  darken'd  street, 
Silen.  the  slumbering  Thames,  the  lonely  mart; 
And  all  is  still,  where  countless  thousands  meet, 
Save  the  full  throbbing  of  the  awe-struck  heart  I 
All  deeply,  strangely,  fearfully  serene, 
As  in  each  ravaged  homo  th'  avenging  one  had 

been. 

XIII. 

The  sun  goes  down  in  beauty — his  farewell, 
Unlike  the  world  he  leaves,  is  calmly  bright : 
And  his  last  mellow'd  rays  around  us  dwell, 
Lingering,  as  if  on  scenes  of  young  delight. 
They  smile  and  fade — but  when  the  day  is  o'er, 
What    slow  procession    moves,   with    measured 

tread?  — 

Lo  !  those  who  weep,  with  her  who  weeps  no  more, 
A  solemn  train— the  mourners  and  the  dead  ! 
While,  throned  on  high,  the  moon's  untroubled  ray 
Looks  down,  as  earthly  hopes  are  passing  thus 

away. 

XIV. 

But  other  light  is  in  that  holy  pile, 
Where,  in  the  house  of  silence,  kings  repose  ; 
There,  through  the  dim  arcade,  and  pillar'd  aisle, 
The  funeral-torch  its  deep-red  radiance  throws. 
There  pall,  and  canopy,  and  sacred  strain, 
And  all  around  the  stamp  of  woe  may  bear; 
But  Grief,  to  whose  full  heart  those  forms  are  vain, 
Grii'f  unexpress'd,  unsoothed  by  them— is  there. 
No  darker  hour  hath  Fate  for  him  who  mourns, 
Than  when  the  all  he  loved,  as  dust  to  dust,  re- 
turns. 

XV. 

We  mourn— but  not  thy  fate,  departed  One  I 
WP  pity— but  the  living,  not  the  dead  ; 
A  cloud  hangs  o'er  us — "  the  bright  day  is  done."* 
Ami  with  a  father's  hopes,  a  nation's  fled. 
And  he.  the  chosen  of  thy  youthful  breast, 
Whose  soul  with  thine  had  mingled  every  thought. 
HH.  wiili  iliine  early,  fond  affections  blest, 
Lord  of  a  mind  with  all  things  lovely  fraught; 
What  but  a  desert  to  his  eye,  that  earth. 
Which  hut  retains  of  thee,  the   memory  «f  thjr 
worth? 


•  "  The  bright  day  ji  done. 

And  we  are  Cor  the  dark." Shaktptan. 


XVI. 

Oh!  there  are  griefs  for  nature  too  intense, 
Whose  first  rude  shock  but  stupefies  the  soul; 
Nor  hath  the  fragile  and  o'erlabpur'd  sense 
Strength  e'en  to  feel  at  once  their  dread  control. 
But  when  'tis  past,  that  still  and  speechless  hour 
Of  the  seal'd  bosom,  and  the  tearless  eye, 
Then  the  roused  mind  awakes,  with  tenfold  power, 
To  grasp  the  fullness  of  its  agony  I 
Its  death-like  torpor  vanish'd — and  its  doom, 
To  cast  its  own  dark  hues  o'er  life  and  nature'l 
bloom. 

XVII. 

And  such  his  lot,  whom  thou  hast  lovrd  and  left, 
Spirit !  thus  early  to  thy  home  recall'd  ! 
So  sinks  the  heart,  of  hope  and  thee  bereft, 
A  warrior's  heart !  by  danger  ne'er  appall'd. 
Years  may  pass  on — and,  as  they  roll  along. 
Mellow  those  pangs  which  now  his  bosom  rend  ; 
And  he  once  more,  with  life's  unheeding  throng. 
May,  though  alone  in  soul,  in  seeming  blend; 
Yet  still,  the  guardian-angel  of  his  mind, 
Shall  thy  loved  image  dwell,  in  Memory's  temple 
shrined. 

XVIII. 

Yet  must  the  days  he  long  «re  time  shall  steal 
Aught   from  his  grief,  whose   spirit  dwells  with 

thee ; 

Once  deeply  bruised,  the  heart  at  length  may  heal, 
But  all  it  was— oh!  never  more  shall  be — 
The  flower,  the  leaf,  o'erwhelm'd  by  winter-snow. 
Shall  spring  again,  when  beams  and  showers  re- 
turn ; 

The  faded  cheek  again  with  health  may  glow, 
And  the  dim  eye  with  life's  warm  radiance  burn  ; 
But  the  pure  freshness  of  the  mind's  young  bloom, 
Once  lost,   revives  alone  in  worlds    beyond   the 
tomb. 

XIX. 

But  thou — thine  hour  of  agony  is  o'er, 
And  thy  brief  race  in  brilliance  l\ath  been  run, 
While  Faith,  that  bids  fond  nature  grieve  no  more, 
Tells   that  thy  crown— though  not  on    earlh--i* 

won. 

Thou,  of  the  world  so  early  left,  hast  known 
Naught  but  the  bloom  and  sunshine — and  for  thee 
Child  of  propitious  stars  !  for  thee  alone, 
The  course  of  love  ran  smooth,*  and  brightly  free — 
Not  long  such  bliss  to  mortal  could  be  given. 
It  is  enough  for  earth,  to  catch  one  glimpse  of 

heaven. 

XX. 

What  though,  ere  yet  the  noonday  of  thy  fame 
Hose  in  its  glory  on  thine  England's  eye, 
The  grave's  deep  shadows  o'er  thy  spirit  came? 
Ours  is  that  loss— and  thou  wert  blest  to  die  ! 
Thou  might'st  have  lived  to  dark  and  evil  years. 
To  mourn  thy  people  changed,  thy  skies  oVinist  ; 
But  thy  spring-morn  was  all  nndinim'd  by  tears, 
And  thou  wert  loved  and  cherish'd  to  the  last! 
And  thy  young  name,  ne'er  breathed  in  ruder  tone, 
Thus  dying,  thou  hast  left  to  love  and  grief  alone 

XXI. 

Daughter  of  Kings!   from  that  high  sphere  look 

down, 

Where  still  in  hope,  affection's  thoughts  may  rise  , 
Where  dimly  shines  to  lliee  that  mortal  cruwn. 
Which  earth  display'd  to  claim  ihec  from  Hie  skies. 
Look  down  !  and  if  thy  spirit  yet  retain 
Memory  of  aught  that  once  was  fondly  dear. 
Soothe,  though  unseen,  the  hearts  that  mourn  in 

vain, 

And,  in  their  hours  of  loneliness — be  near! 
Blest  was  thy  lot  e'en  here— and  one  faint  ?ich, 
Oh!  tell  those  hearts,  hath  made  that  bliss  eternity! 


*"  The  cwne  of  true  love  never  did  run  nnooth." Shakipaut 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


69 


A   POEM. 


Leur  raiwa,  qu'ili  prennent  pour  guide,  ne  presente  a  leur  esprit 
quc  des  ccujectures  et  des  embarras  ;  tee  absurdites  ou  ils  tomuent 
fH  niant  la  Religion  devienneu!  plus  inaoutenables  quc  U*  vrritet 
donl  la  h»u(eur  les  etoun*  ;  et  pour  ne  vouloir  pu  croire  de«  niys- 
tern  incompreheiuibln,  ils  suiveol  1'une  iprej  lautre  d'iucom- 
prehensibles  erreurs." Botntet,  Oraisont  Fimeira. 


WHEN  the  young  Eagle,  with  exulting  eye, 
Flas  learn'd  to  dare  tile  splendour  of  tile  sky. 
Ami  leave  lite  Alps  beneath  him  in  his  course. 
To  hathe  his  crest  in  morn's  empyreal  source, 
\Vill  his  free  wing,  from  that  majestic  height, 
D.-scenil  to  follow  some  wild  meteor's  light, 
U'liich  far  helow,  with  evanescent  fire, 
Climes  to  delude,  and  dazzles  to  expire  ? 

Xo!  still  through  clouds  he  wins  his  upward  wty 
And  proudly  claims  liis  heritage  of  day  ! 
—  And  shall  the  spirit  on  whose  ardent  gaze, 
The  day-spring  from  on  high  hath  pour'd  its  blaze, 
Turn  from  that  pure  effulgence,  to  the  beam 
'Jf   earth-horn    light,    that    sheds   a   treacherous 

gleam, 

Curing  the  wanderer  from  a  star  of  faith, 
I'o  the  deep  valley  of  the  shades  of  death? 
•Vhat  bright  exchange,  what  treasure  shall  be 

given, 

»Vir  the  high  birth-right  of  its  hope  in  Heaven? 
.f  lost  the  gem  which  empires  could  not  huy, 
•Vhat  yet  remains  ?— a  dark  eternity ! 

Is  earth  still  Eden! — might  a  seraph  guest, 
Still,  'midst  its  chosen  bowers,  delighted  rest? 
Is  all  so  cloudless  and  so  calm  helow, 
We  seek  no  fairer  scenes  than  life  can  show  ? 
Vital  the  cold  Sceptic,  in  his  pride  elate, 
Rejects  the  promise  of  a  brighter  state. 
And  leaves  the  rock,  no  tempest  shall  displace, 
To  rear  his  dwelling  on  the  quicksand's  base? 

Votary  of  doubt !  then  join  the  festal  throng, 
Bask  in  the  sunbeam,  listen  to  the  song. 
Spread  the  rich  board,  and  All  the  wine-cup  high, 
And  hind  the  wreath  ere  yet  the  roses  die ! 
Tis  well,  thine  eye  is  yet  nndimniM  by  time, 
And  tliy  heart  bounds,  exulting  in  its  prime; 
£mile  then  unmoved  at  Wisdom's  warning  voice. 
Ami,  in  the  glory  of  thy  strength,  rejoice  I 

But  life  hath  sterner  tasks  ;  e'en  youth's  brief 

hours 

Survive  the  beauty  of  their  loveliest  flowers; 
The  founts  of  joy,  where  pilgrims  rest  from  toil, 
Are  few  and  distant  on  the  desert  soil : 
The  soul's  pure  flame  the  breath  of  storms  must  fan, 
And  pain  and  sorrow  claim  their  nursling — Man  ! 
Earth's  noblest  sons  the  bitter  cup  have  shared — 
Proud  child  of  reason,  how  art  tho*  prepared? 
When   years,  with  silent   might,  thy  frame  have 

bow'd, 

And  o'er  thy  spirit  cast  their  wintry  cloud, 
Will  Memory  soothe  thee  on  thy  bed  of  pain, 
With  the  briglit  images  of  pleasure's  train  ? 
Vesl  as  the  sight  of  some  far  distant  shore, 
Whose  well-known  scenes  his  foot  shall  tread  no 

more, 

Would  cheer  the  seaman,  by  the  eddying  wave 
Drawn,  vainly  strugnline.  toth'  unfathcnn'd  grave! 
Shall  Hope,  the  faithful  cherub,  hear  thy  call, 
She,  who  like  heaven's  own  sunbeam,  smites  for 

all? 
Will  she   speak  comfort? — Thou  hast  shorn  her 

plume. 

That  miuht  have  raised  thee  far  above  the  tomb, 
And  liush'd  the  only  voice  whose  angel  tone 
Soothes  when  all  melodies  of  joy  are  flown) 

For  she  was  horn  beyond  the  stars  to  soar, 
And  kindling  at  the  source  of  life,  adore; 
Thou  cotfldst  not,  mortal !  rivet  to  the  earth 
Her  eye,  whose  beam  is  of  celestial  birth: 


She  dwells  with  those  who  leave  her  pinion  free, 
And  sheds  the  dews  of  lieav'n  on  all  but  thee. 

Yet  few  there  are,  so  lonely,  so  bereft. 
But  some  true  heart,  that  beats  to  theirs,  is  left. 
And,  haply,  one  whose  strong  affection's  power 
Unchanged  may  triumph  through  misfortune's  hour 
Still  with  fond  care  supports  thy  languid  head. 
And  keeps  unwearied  vigils  by  thy  bed. 

But  thou !  whose  thoughts  have  no  blest  home 

above, 

Captive  of  earth!  and  canst  thou  dare  to  love? 
To  nurse  such  feelings  as  delight  to  rest. 
Within  that  hallow'd  shrine— a  parent's  breast, 
To  fix  each  hope,  concentrate  every  tie, 
On  one  frail  idol, — destined  but  to  die. 
Yet  mock  the  faith  that  points  to  world!-  of  light, 
Where  sever'd  souls,  made  perfect,  reunite  ? 
Then  tremble !  cling  to  every  passing  joy, 
Twined  with  the  life  a  moment  may  destroy ! 
If  there  be  sorrow  in  a  parting  tear, 
Still  let  "/or  ever"  vibrate  on  thine  ear! 
If  some  bright  hour  on  rapture's  wing  hath  flown, 
Find  more  than  anguish  in  the  thought — 't  is  gout 
Go!  to  a  voice  such  magic  influence  give, 
Thou  canst  not  lose  its  melody,  and  live  ; 
And  make  an  eye  the  lode-star  of  thy  soul, 
And  let  a  glance  the  springs  of  thought  control ; 
Gaze  on  a  mortal  form  with  fond  delight. 
Till  the  fair  vision  mingles  with  thy  sight; 
There  seek  thy  blessings,  there  repose  thv  trust. 
Lean  on  the  willow,  idolize  the  dust! 
Then,  when  thy  treasure  best  repays  thy  care., 
Think  on  that  dread  "/or  ever"— and  despair! 

And   oh!    no   strange,   unwonted   storm    ther« 

needs. 

To  wreck  at  once  thy  fragile  ark  of  reeds. 
Watch  well  its  course— explore  with  anxious  eye 
Each  little  cloud  that  floats  along  the  sky- 
Is  the  blue  canopy  serenely  fair  ? 
Vet  may  tin-  thunderbolt  unseen  be  there. 
And   the   bark  sink,  when  peace  and   sunshine 

sleep 

On  the  smooth  bosom  of  the  waveless  deep! 
Yes!  ere  a  sound,  a  sign,  announce  thy  fate. 
May  the  blow  fall  which  makes  thee  desolate! 
Not  always  Heaven's  destroying  angel  shrouds 
His  awful  form  in  tempests  and  in  clouds  ; 
He  fills  the  summer-air  with  latent  power. 
He  hides  his  venom  in  the  scented  flower. 
He  steals  upon  thee,  in  the  Zephyr's  breath, 
And  festal  garlands  veil  the  shafts  of  death  1 

Where  art  thou  then,  who  thus  didst  rashly  cast 
Thine  all  upon  the  mercy  of  the  blast, 
And  vainly  hope  the  tree  of  life  to  find 
Rooted  in  sands  that  (lit  before  the  wind  ? 
Is  not  that  earth  thy  spirit  loved  so  well. 
It  wish'd  not  in  a  brighter  sphere  to  dwell. 
Become  a  desert  now,  u.  veil  of  gloom, 
O'ershadow'd  with  the  midnight  of  the  tomb? 
Where  shaltthou  turn  ?— it  is  not  thine  to  raise 
To  yon  pure  heaven  thy  calm  confiding  gaze. 
No  gleam  reflected  from  that  realm  of  rest 
Steals  on  the  darkness  of  thy  troubled  breast, 
Not  for  thine  eye  shall  faith  divinely  shed 
Her  glory  round  the  image  of  the  dead; 
And  if.  when  slumber's  lonely  couch  is  prest, 
The  form  departed  he  thy  spirit's  guest, 
It  bears  no  light  from  purer  worlds  to  this  ; 
The  future  lends  not  e'en  a  dream  of  bliss. 

But  who  shall  dare  the  Gate  of  Life  to  close. 
Or  say,  thus  far  the  stream  of  mercy  flows  ? 
That  fount  unseal'd,  whose  boundless  waves  em 

brace 

Each  distant  isle,  and  visit  every  race, 
Pours  from  the  Throne  of  God  its  current  free, 
Nor  yet  denies  th'  immortal  draught  to  thee. 
Oh  !  while  the  doom  impends,  nor  yet  decreed, 
While  yet  th'  Atoner  hath  not  ceased  to  plead, 
While  still,  suspended  by  a  single  hair. 
The  sharp  bright  sword  hangs  quivering  in  the  nil 
Bow  down  thy  heart  to  Him.  who  will  not  break 
The  bruised  reed  ;  e'en  yet,  awake,  awake  1 


ro 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Patient,  because  Eternal,  (1)  He  may  hear 
Thy  prayer  of  agony  with  pitying  ear, 
And  send  his  chastening  spirit  from  above. 
O'er  the  deep  chaos  of  thy  soul  to  move. 

But  seek  thou  mercy  through  His  name  alone, 
To  whose  unequall'd  sorrows  none  was  shown. 
Through  Him,  who  here  in  mortal  garb  abode, 
As  man  to  suffer,  and  to  heal  as  God  ! 
And,  born  the  sons  of  utmost  time  to  bless, 
Endured  all  scorn,  and  aided  all  distress. 

Call  thou  on  Him— for  He.  in  human  form. 
Hath  walk'd  the  waves  of  Life,  and  still'd  the 

storm, 

He,  when  her  hour  of  lingering  grace  was  past, 
O'er  Salem  wept,  relenting  to  the  last, 
Wept  with  such  tears  as  Judah's  monarch  pour'd 
O'er  his  lost  child,  ungrateful,  yet  deplored  ; 
And,  offering  guiltless  blood  that  guilt  might  live, 
Taught  from  his  Cross  the  lesson — to  forgive ! 

Call  thou  on  Him— his  prayer  e'en  then  arose. 
Breathed  in  unpitied  anguish,  for  bis  foes. 
And  haste!— ere  hursts  the  lightning  from  on  high 
Fly  to  the  City  of  thy  refuge,  fly  !(2) 
So  shall  the  Avenger  turn  his  stops  away, 
And  sheathe  his  falchion,  baffled  of  its  prey. 

Yet  must  long  days  roll  on ,  ere  peace  shall  brood. 
As  the  soft  Halcyon,  o'er  thy  heart  subdued  ; 
Ere  yet  the  dove  of  Heaven  descend,  to  shed 
Inspiring  influence  o'er  thy  fallen  head. 
— He  who  hath  pined  in  dungeons,  'midst  the  shade 
Of  such  deep  night  as  man  for  man  hath  made. 
Through  lingering  years  ;  if  call'd  at  length  to  be 
Once  more,  by  nature's  boundless  charter,  free, 
Shrinks  feebly  back,  the  blaze  of  noon  to  shun, 
Fainting  at  day,  and  blasted  by  the  sun! 
Thus,  when  the  captive  soul  hath  long  remain'd 
Tn  its  own  dread  abyss  of  darkness  chain'd. 
If  the  Deliverer,  in  his  mieht  at  last, 
Its  fetters,  horn  of  earth,  to  earth  shonH  cast. 
The  beam  of  truth  o'erpowers  its  dazzled  sight, 
Trembling  it  sinks,  and  finds  no  joy  in  light. 
But  this  will  pass  away — that  spark  of  mind. 
Within  thy  frame  niiuiieiicnafoly  enshrined. 
Shall  live  to  triumph  in  its  brightening  ray, 
Born  to  he  foster'il  with  ethereal  day. 
Then  wilt   thou  bless  the  hour,  when  o'er  ihee 

pass'd. 

On  wing  of  flame,  the  purifying  blast, 
And  sorrow's  voice,  through  paths  before  untrod. 
Like  Sinai's  trumpet,  call'd  thee  to  thy  Godt 

But  hop'st  thou,  in  thy  panoply  of  pride, 
Heaven's  messenger,  affliction,  to  deride  ? 
In  thine  own  strength  unaided  to  defy. 
With  Stoic  smile,  the  arrows  of  the  shy  ? 
Torn  by  the  vulture,  fetter'd  to  the  rock. 
Still,  Demigod  !  the  tempest  wilt  thou  mock  ? 
Alas  !  the  tower  that  crests  the  mountain's  brow 
A  thousand  years  may  awe  the  vale  below, 
Yet  not  the  less  be  shatter'd  on  its  height, 
By  one  dread  moment  of  the  earthquake's  might ! 
A  thousand  pangs  thy  bosom  may  have  borne, 
In  silent  fortitude,  or  haughty  scorn. 
Till  comes  the  one,  the  master-anguish,  sent 
To  break  the  mighty  heart  that  ne'er  was  bent. 

Oh!  what  is  nature's  strength  ?  the  vacant  eye, 
By  mind  deserted,  hath  a  dread  reply ! 
The  wild  delirious  laughter  of  despair, 
The  mirth  of  frenzy — seek  an  answer  there! 
Turn  not  away,  though  pity's  cheek  grow  pale, 
Close  not  thine  ear  against  their  awful  tale. 
They  tell  thee,  reason,  wandf  ring  from  the  ray 
Of  Faith,  the  blazing  pillar  of  her  way, 
In  the  mid-darkness  of  the  stormy  wave. 
Forsook  the  struggling  soul  she  could  not  save  I 
Weep  not,  sad  moralist!  o'er  desert  plains, 
Strew'd  with  the  wrecks  of  grandeur— mouldering 

fanes. 

Arches  of  triumph,  long  with  weeds  o'ergrown, 
And  regal  cities,  now  the  serpent's  own  ; 
Earth  lias  more  awful  ruins— one  lost  mind. 
Whose  star  is  quench'd,  hath  lessons  for  mankind. 


Of  deeper  import  than  each  prostrate  dome, 
Mingling  its  marble  with  the  dust  of  Koine. 

But  who  with  eye  unshrinking  shall  explore 
That  waste,  illumed  by  reason's  beam  no  more  ? 
Who  pierce  the  deep,  mysterious  clouds  that  roll 
Around  the  shatter'd  temple  of  the  soul, 
Curtain'd  with  midnight  ?— low  its  columns  lie, 
And  dark  the  chambers  of  its  imag'ry,  (3) 
Sunk  are  its  idols  now — and  God  alone 
May  rear  the  fabric  by  their  fall  o'erthrown  ! 
Yet  from  its  inmost  shrine,  by  storms  laid  bare. 
Is  heard  an  oracle  that  cries—"  Beware  ! 
Child  of  the  dust !  but  ransom'd  of  the  skies! 
One  breath  of  Heaven— and  thus  thy  glory  dies ! 
Haste,  ere  the  hour  of  doom,  draw  nigh  :o  Him 
Who  dwells  above  between  the  cherubim  I" 

Spirit  dethroned  !  and  check'd  in  mid  career, 
Son  of  the  morning!  exiled  from  thy  sphere. 
Tell  us  thy  tale ! — Perchance  thy  race  was  run 
With  science,  in  the  chariot  of  the  sun  ; 
Free  as  the  winds  the  paths  of  space  to  sweep, 
Traverse  the  untrodden  kingdoms  of  the  deep. 
And  search  the  laws  that  Nature's  spring*  control 
There  tracing  all — save  Him  who  guides  the  whole. 

Haply  thine  eye  its  ardent  glance  had  east 
Through  the  dim  shades,  the  portals  of  the  past ; 
By  the  bright  lamp  of  thought  thy  care  had  fed 
From  the  far  beacon-lights  of  ages  fled, 
The  depth  of  time  exploring,  to  retrace 
The  glorious  march  of  many  a  vanish' d  race. 

Or  did  thy  power  pervade  the  Jiving  lyre, 
Till  its  deep  chords  became  instinct  with  fire. 
Silenced  all  meaner  notes,  and  sweird  on  high, 
Full  and  alone,  their  mighty  harmony. 
While  woke  each  passion  from  its  cell  profound, 
And  nations  started  at  th'  electric  sound  ? 

Lord  of  th'  Ascendant !  what  avails  it  now, 
Though  bright  the  laurels  waved  upon  thy  brow? 
What,  though  lliy  name,  through  distant  empire* 

heard, 

Bade  the  heart  bound  as  doth  a  battle-word? 
Was  it  for  this  thy  still  unwearied  eye 
Kept  vigil  with  the  watch-fires  of  the  sky. 
To  make  the  secrets  of  all  ages  thine. 
And  commune  with  majestic  thoughts  that  shine 
O'er  Time's  long  shadowy  pathway  ?— hath  thy 

mind 

Sever'd  its  lone  dominions  from  mankind, 
For  this  to  woo  tl»eir  homage  ?— Thou  hast  sought 
All.  save  the  wisdom  with  salvation  fraught. 
Won  every  wreath— but  that  which  will  not  die. 
Nor  aught  neglected — save  eternity  I 

And  did  all  fail  thee,  in  the  hour  of  wrath. 
When  burst  th'  o'erwhelming  vials  on  thy  path? 
Could  not  the  voice  of  Fame  inspire  thee  then, 
O  spirit !  sceptred  by  the  sons  of  men. 
With  an  Immortal's  courage  to  sustain 
The  transient  agonies  of  earthly  pain  ? 

—One,  one  there  was,  all-powerful  to  have  sa\  ed 
When  the  loud  fury  of  the  billow  raved  ; 
But  Him  thou  knew'st  not— and  the  light  he  lent 
Hath  vanish'd  from  its  ruin'd  tenement. 
But  left  thee  breathing,  moving,  lingering  yet, 
A  thing  we  shrink  from — vainly  to  forget ; 
Lift  the  dread  veil  no  further— hide,  oh  I  hWe 
The  bleeding  form,  the  couch  of  suicide  ! 
The  dagger  grasp'd  in  death— the  brow,  the  eye, 
Lifeless,  yet  stamp'd  with  rage  and  agony; 
The  soul's  dark  traces  left  in  many  a  line 
Graved  on  his  mien,  who  died, — "  and  made  n« 

sign !" 

Approach  not,  gaze  not— lest  thy  fever'd  brain 
Too  deep  that  image  of  despair  retain  ; 
Angels  of  slumber  I  o'er  the  midnight  hour. 
Let  not  such  visions  claim  unhallow'd  power. 
Lest  the  mind  sink  with  terror,  and  above 
See  but  th'  Avenger's  ana,  forgot  th'  Atotier's  lov* 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


O  Thou !  th'  unseen,  tir  all-seeing  1— Thou  whose 

ways 

Mantled  with  darkness,  innck  all  finite  gaze, 
Before  whose  eyes  the  creatures  of  Thy  hand, 
Seraph  and  man,  alike  in  weakness  stand, 
And  countless  ages,  trampling  into  clay 
Earth's  empires  on  their  march,  are  but  a  day ; 
Father  of  worlds  unknown,  unnumber'd— Thou, 
With  whom  all  time  is  one  eternal  note, 
Who   know'st  no  past,  nor  future— Thou  whose 

breath 

Goes  forth,  and  bears  to  myriads,  life  or  death  I 
Look  on  us,  guide  us! — wanderers  of  a  sea 
Wild  and  obscure,  what  are  we,  reft  of  Thee  I 
A  thousand  rocks,  deep-hid,  elude  our  sight, 
A  star  may  set — and  we  are  lost  in  night ; 
A  breeze  may  waft  us  to  the  whirlpool's  brink, 
\  treach'rous  song  allure  us — and  we  sink  ! 

Oh  !  by  His  Jove,  who,  veiling  Godhead's  light, 
To  moments  circumscribed  the  Infinite, 
And  Heaven  and  Earth  disdain'd  not  to  ally 
By  that  dread  union — Man  with  Deity  ; 
Immortal  tears  o'er  mortal  woes  who  shed, 
And,  ere  he  raised  them,  wept  above  the  dead  ; 
Kave,  or  we  perish  ! — let  Thy  word  control 
The  earthquakes  of  that  universe — the  soul; 
Pervade  the  depths  of  passion — speak  once  more 
The  misrhty  mandate,  guard  of  every  shore, 
"Here  shall  thy  waves  bestay'd" — in  grinf,  in  pain, 
The  fearful  poise  of  reason's  sphere  maintain, 
Thou,  by  whom  suns  are  balanced  ! — thus  secure 
In  Thee  shall  Faith  and  Fortitude  endure ; 
Conscious  of  Thee,  unfaltering  shall  the  just 
Look  upward  still,  in  high  and  holy  trust. 
And,  by  affliction  guided  to  Thy  shrine, 
The  first,  last  thought  of  suffering  hearts  be  Thinu. 

And  oh!  be  near,  when  clothed  with  conquering 

power. 

The  King  of  Terrors  claims  his  own  dread  hour  • 
When  on  the  edge  of  that  unknown  abyss, 
Which  darkly  parts  us  from  the  realm  of  bliss. 
Awe-struck  alike  the  timid  and  the  brave. 
Alike  subdued  the  monarch  and  the  slave. 
Must  drink  the  cup  of  trembling  (4) — when  we  see 
Naught  in  the  universe  but  death  and  Thee, 
Forsake  us  not ;— if  still,  when  life  was  young, 
Faith  to  Thy  bosom,  as  her  home,  hath  sprung, 
If  Hope's  retreat  hath  been,  through  all  the  past, 
The  shadow  by  the  Rock  of  Ages  cast, 
Father,  forsake  us  not ! — when  tortures  urge 
The  slirinkinir  soul  to  that  mysterious  verge, 
When  from  Thy  justice  to  Thy  love  we  fly, 
On  Nature's  conflict  look  with  pitying  eye, 
Bid  the  strong  wind,  tile  fire,  the  earthquake  cease. 
Come   in    the    still   small   voice,  and  whisper  — 
peace ! (5) 

For  oh!  'tis  awful— He  that  hath  beheld 
The  parting  spirit,  by  its  fears  repell'd. 
Cling  in  weak  terror  to  its  earthly  chain, 
And  from  the  dizzy  brink  recoil,  in  vain  ; 
He  that  hath  seen  the  last  convulsive  throe 
Dissolve  the  union  form'd  and  closed  in  woe, 
I  Well  knows,  that  hour  is  awful.— In  the  pride 
I  Of  youth  and  health,  by  sufferings  yet  untried, 
!  We  talk  of  Death,  as  something,  which  'twere 

sweet 

In  Glory's  arms  ex'iiltingly  to  meet, 
A  closing  triumph,  a  majestic  scene, 
Where  gazing  nations  watch  the  hero's  mien, 
As,  undismay'd  amidst  the  tears  of  all, 
He  folds  his  mantle,  regally  to  fall  I 

Hush,  fond  enthusiast! — still,  obscure,  and  lone, 
Vet  not  less  terrible  because  unknown, 
Is  the  last  hour  of  thousands — they  retire 
From  life's  throng'd  path,  unnoticed  to  expire. 
As  the  light  leaf,  whose  fall  to  ruin  bears 
Some  trembling  insect's  little  world  of  cares 
Descends  in  silence — while  around  waves  on. 
The  mighty  forest,  reckless  what  is  gone  ! 
Such  is  man's  doom — and,  ere  an  hour  be  flown, 
— Staitnot,  thou  trifler!— such  may  be  thine  own 


But  as  life's  current  in  its  ebb  draws  near 
The  shadowy  gulf,  there  wakes  a  thought  of  fear 
A  thrilling  thought,  which.  Imply  mock'd  before. 
We  fain  would  stille — but  it  sleeps  no  more  I 
There  are,  who  fly  its  murmurs  'midst  the  throng. 
That  join  the  masque  of  revelry  and  song, 
Yet  still  Death's  image,  by  its  power  restored. 
Frowns  'midst  the  roses  of  the  festal  board, 
And,  when  deep  shades  o'er  earth  and  ocean  brood, 
And  the  heart  owns  the  might  of  solitude. 
Is  its  low  whisper  heard — a  note  profound, 
But  wild  and  startling  as  the  trumpet-sound 
That  bursts,  with  sudden  blast,  the  dead  repose 
Of  some  proud  city,  storm'd  by  midnight  foes  I 

Oh!  vainly  reason's  scornful  voice  would  prove 
That  life  hath  naught  to  claim  such  lingering  love, 
And  ask,  if  ere  the  captive,  half  unchain'd, 
Clung  to  the  links  which  yet  his  step  reslrain'd 
In  vain  philosophy,  with  tranquil  pride, 
Would  mock  the  feelings  she  perchance  can  hide, 
Call  up  the  countless  armies  of  the  dead. 
Point  to  the  pathway  beaten  by  their  tread. 
And  say— "What  wouldst  thou?  Shall  the  fix'd 

decree, 

Made  for  creation,  be  reversed  for  ttiee?" 
— Poor,  feeble  aid! — proud  Stoic!  ask  not  why. 
It  is  enough,  that  nature  shrinks  to  die  ! 
Enough,  that  horror,  which  thy  words  upbraid, 
Is  her  dread  penalty,  and  must  be  paid  I 
— Search  thy  deep  wisdom,  solve  the  scarce  defined 
And  mystic  questions  of  the  parting  mind. 
Half  check'd,  half  utter'd— tell  her,  what  shall 

burst, 

fn  whelming  grandeur,  on  her  vision  first. 
When  freed  from  mortal   films?— what  viewless 

world 

Shall  first  receive  her  wing,  hut  half  unfurl'dl 
What  awful  and  unbodied  beings  guide 
Her  timid  flight  through  regions  yet  untried  1 
Say  if  at  once,  her  final  doom  to  hear, 
Before  her  God  the  trembler  must  appear. 
Or  wait  that  day  of  terror,  when  the  sea 
Shall  yield  its  hidden  dead,  and  heaven  and  earth 

shall  flee? 

Hast  thou  no  answer? — then  deride  no  more 
The  thoughts  that  shrink,  yet  cease  not  to  explore 
Th'  unknown,  th'  unseen, 'the  future— though  the 

heart, 

As  at  unearthly  sounds,  before  them  start, 
Though  the  frame  shudder,  and  the  spirit  sigh, 
They  have  their  source  in  immortality  ! 
Whence,  then,  shall  strength,  which  reason's  aid 

denies, 

An  equal  to  the  mortal  conflict  rise? 
When,  on  the  swift  pale  horse,  whose  lightning 

pace, 

Where'er  we  fly,  still  wins  the  dreadful  race, 
The  mighty  rider  comes— oh  !  whence  shall  aid 
Be  drawn,  to  meet  his  rushing,  undismay'd? 
—Whence,  but  from  thee,  Messiah  !  —  thou  hasl 

drain'd 

The  bitter  cup,  till  not  the  dregs  remain'd  ; 
To  thee  the  struggle  and  the  pang  were  known 
The  mystic  horror  all  became  thine  own  ! 

But  did  no  hand  celestial  succour  bring. 
Till  scorn  and  anguish  haply  lost  their  sting  7 
Came  not  th'  Archangel,  in  the  final  hour, 
To  arm  thee  with  invulnerable  power? 
No,  Son  of  God!  upon  thy  sacred  head. 
The  shafts  of  wrath  their  tenfold  fury  shed, 
From  man  averted — and  thy  path  on  high 
Pass'd  through  the  strait  of  fiercest  agony; 
For  thus  th'  Eternal,  with  propitious  eyes, 
Received  the  last,  th'  almighty  sacrifice  I 

But  wake  !  be  glad,  ye  nations  !  from  the  tomb 
Is  won  the  victory,  and  is  fled  the  gloom  I 
The  vale  of  death  in  conquest  hath  been  trod, 
Break  forth  in  joy,  ye  ransom'd  !  saith  your  God 
Swell  ye  the  raptures  of  the  song  afar, 
And  hail  with  harps  your  bright  and  morning  itai 

He  rose!  the  everlasting  gates  of  day 
Receiv'd  (he  King  of  Glory  on  his  wav  I 


72 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  hope,  the  comforter  of  those  who  wept, 
And  the  first  fruits  of  them,  in  him  that  slept. 
He  rose,  he  triumph'd  !  he  will  yet  sustain 
Frail  nature  sinking  in  the  strife  of  pain. 
Aided  by  Him.  around  the  martyr's  frame 
When  fiercely  blazed  n  living  shroud  of  flame, 
Hath  the  firm  soul  exulted,  and  the  voice 
Raised  the  victorious  hymn,  and  cried.  •'  Rejoice!" 
Aided  by  Him,  though  none  the  bed  attend, 
Where  the  lone  sufl'.irer  dies  without  a  friend, 
He,  whom  the  busy  world  shall  miss  no  more 
Than  morn  one  dew-drop  from  her  countless  store, 
Earth's  most  neglected  child,  with  trusting  heart 
Call'd  to  the  hope  of  glory  shall  depart ! 

And  say.  cold  Sophist  !  if  by  thee  bereft 
Of  that  high  hope,  to  misery  what  were  left  ? 
But  for  the  vision  of  the  days  to  be. 
But  for  the  Comforter,  despised  by  thee. 
Should  we  not  wither  at  the  Chastener's  look, 
Should  we  not  sink  beneath  our  God's  rebuke. 
When  o'er  our  heads  the  desolating  blast. 
Fraught  with  inscrutable  decrees,  hath  pass'd, 
And  the  stern  power  who  seeks  the  noblest  prey, 
Hath  call'd  our  fairest  and  our  best  away? 
Should  we  not  madden,  when  our  eyes  behold 
All  that  we  loved  in  marble  stillness  cold. 
No  more  responsive  to  our  smile  or  sigh, 
Fix'd — frozen — silent— all  mortality  ? 
Rut  for  the  promise,  all  shall  yet  be  well. 
Would  not  the  spirit  in  its  pangs  rebel. 
Beneath  such  clouds  as  darken'd,  when  the  hand 
Of  wrath  lay  heavy  on  our  prostrate  land, 
And  thon,  just  lent  thy  pladden'd  isles  to  bless, 
Then  snatch'd  from  earth  with  all  thy  loveliness, 
With  all  a  nation's  blessings  on  thy  head, 
O  England's  flower!  wert  gather'd  to  the  dead? 
But  thou  didst  teach  us.    Thou  to  every  heart. 
Faith's  lofty  lesson  didst  thyself  impart ! 
vVhen  fled  the  hope  through  all  thy  pangs  whicb 

smiled, 

VVhen  thy  young  bosom,  o'er  the  lifeless  child, 
Yearn'd  with  vain  lon?ine — still  thy  patient  eye. 
To  its  last  light,  beam'd  holy  constancy! 
Torn  from  a  lot  in  cloudless  sunshine  cast. 
Amidst  those  agonies — thy  first  and  last, 
Thy  pale  lip,  quivering  with  convulsive  throes, 
Breathed  not  a  plaint— and  settled  in  repose  ; 
While  bow'd  thy  royal  head  to  Him,  whose  power 
Spoke  in    ">e  fiat  of  that  midnight  hour, 
Who  from  the  brightest  vision  of  a  throne, 
Love,  glory,  empire  claim'd  thee  for  his  own, 
And  spread  such  terror  o'er  the  sea-girt  coast, 
As  blasted  Israel,  when  her  ark  was  lost  I 

"  It  is  the  will  of  God  !" — yet,  yet  we  hear 
The  words  that  closed  thy  beautiful  career. 
Yet  should  we  mourn  thee  in  thy  blest  abode, 
But  for  that  thought—"  It  is  the  will  of  God !" 
Who  shall  arraign  th'  Eternal's  dark  decree, 
If  not  one  murmur  then  escaped  from  thee? 
Oh !  still,  though  vanishing  without  a  trace, 
Thou  hast  not  left  one  scion  of  thy  race, 
Slill  may  thy  memory  bloom  our  vales  among, 
Hallow'd  by  freedom,  and  enshrined  in  song! 
Still  may  thy  pure,  majestic  spirit  dwell. 
Bright  on  the  isles  which  loved  thy  name  so  well. 
E'en  as  an  angel,  with  presiding  care. 
To  wake  and  guard  thine  own  high  virtues  there. 

For  lo!  the  hour  when  storm-presaging  skies 
Call  en  the  watchers  nf  the  land  to  rise, 
To  set  the  sign  of  fire  on  every  height,  (6) 
And  o'er  the  mountains  rear,  with  patriot  might, 
Prepared,  if  summon'd,  in  its  cause  to  die. 
The  banner  of  our  faith,  the  Cross  of  Victory ! 

By  this  hath  England  conquer'd — field  and  flood 
Have  own'd  her  sovereignty— alone  she  stood. 
When   chains  o'er  all   the   sceptred   earth   were 

thrown. 

In  hiffh  and  holy  singleness,  alone, 
But  mighty  in  her  God— and  shall  she  now 
Forget  before  th'  Omnipotent  to  bow  ? 
Froin  the  hricht  fountain  of  her  elory  turn. 
Or  bid  strange  fire  upon  his  altars  burn  ? 
No!  sever'd  land,  midst  rocks  and  billows  rude. 
Throned  in  thy  majesty  of  solitude 


Still  in  the  deep  asylum  of  thy  breast 

Shall  the  pure  elements  of  greatness  rest, 

Virtue  and  faith,  the  tutelary  powers, 

Thy  hearths  that  hallow,  and  defend  thy  tower*! 

Still,  where  thy  hamlet-vales.  O  chosen  isle! 
In  the  soft  beauty  of  their  verdure  smile, 
Where  yew  and  elm  o'ershirle  the  lowly  fanes. 
That  guard  the  peasant's  records  and  remains, 
May  the  blest  echoes  of  the  riab!>.ilh-t>ell 
Sweet  on  the  quiet  of  the  woodlands  swell. 
And  from  each  cottage-dwelling  of  thy  glades. 
When  starlight  glimmers  through  the  deepening 

shades, 

Devotion's  voice  in  choral  hymns  aiise. 
And  bear  the  Land's  warm  incense  to  the  skies. 

There  may  the  mother,  as  with  anxious  joy 
To  Heaven  her  lessons  consecrate  her  boy. 
Teach  his  young  accents  still  the  immortal  lays 
Of  Zion's  bards,  in  inspiration's  days. 
When  Angels,  whispering  through  a  cedar's  shade 
Prophetic  tones  to  Judah's  harp  convey'd  ; 
And  as,  her  soul  all  glistening  in  her  eyes, 
She  bids  the  prayer  of  infancy  arise, 
Tell  of  his  name,  who  left  his  throne  on  high, 
Earth's  lowliest  lot  to  bear  and  sanctify. 
His  love  divine,  by  keenest  anguish  tried. 
And  fondly  say — "  My  child,  for  thee  He  died  1" 


NOTES. 

NOTE  1. 

Patient,  Ucaiue  E'.fmaL 

"  He  is  patient,  because  he  is  eternal." St.  AuguM-.m. 

NOTE  2. 

fly  to  tht  City  of  thy  Refuge,  fly 

"  Then  ye  shall  appoint  you  cities,  to  be  cities  of  refuse  for  TOO  , 
that  the  slayer  may  nee  thither  which  killeth  auy  person  at'  un* 
tvarei. — Ana  'hey  shall  be  unto  you  cities  for  refuge  from  the  aveii 
fer." Humbert,  chap.  xxxv. 

NOTE  3. 

And  dor*  the  chambtrt  of  ill  imag'ry, 
u  Every  man  in  the  chambers  of  his  imagery. "—  EzMil,  chap.  Tiit 

NOTE  4. 

Miat  da-ink  tht  Clip  of  trembling. 

"  Thou  hast  drunken  the  drees  of  the  cup  of  trembling,  and  wrung 
them  out."-— — Isaiah,  chap.  Ti. 

NOTE  5. 

Come  in  tht  ttiUtmall  voice,  and  whirptr — peace. 
"  And  behold,  the  Lord  passed  by,  and  a  great  and  strong  wia4 
rent  the  mountains,  and  brake  in  pieces  the  rocks  before  the  Lord ; 
but  the  Lord  was  not  in  thewinj  :  and  after  the  wind,  an  earth 
quake ;  but  the  Lord  was  not  in  the  earthquake  •  ana  after  the 
earthquake  a  fire ;  but  the  Lord  was  not  in  're  fire  :  and  afler  tlw 
fire  a  (till  small  voice." 1  A'.ngj,  chap.  x.z. 

NOTE  6. 

To  let  the  tign  of  fire  on  toery  height. 
u  *"H  set  up  a  sign  of  ore." Jtremiah,  chap,  v i. 


STANZAS 

TO  THE  * 

MEMORY    OF   THE    LATE    KING. 


"Ar/nng  many  nations  then 
"  Know  ye  not  that  there  a 
Jay  in  Israel  ?" Samuel. 


I  prince  and  a  great  man  fallen  tbil 


ANOTHER  warning  sound!  the  funeral  bell, 

Startling  the  cities  of  the  isle  once  more, 
With  measured  tones  of  melancholy  swell, 

Strike  on  th'  awaken'd  heart  from  shore  to  shore. 
He,  at  whose  coining  monarrhs  sink  to  dust, 

The  chambers  of  our  palaces  halh  trod. 
And  the  long-suffering  spirit  of  the  just, 

Pure  from  its  ruins,  hath  return "d  to  God! 
Vet  may  not  England  o'er  her  Father  weep. 
Thoughts  to  her  bosom  crowd,  too  many,  and  toe 
deep. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


71 


Vain\<>-    -of  Reason,  hush!— they  yet  must  flow 

TtK  >\     straiu'd,  involuntary  tears: 
A  tlvi'.isai    I  feelings  sanctify  the  WOP, 

Ri»..*rd    y  the  glorious  shades  of  vanish'd  years. 
Tell  ;<»  nn    nore  'I  is  not  the  time  for  grief, 

Now  lilt     ill:'  exile  of  the  soul  is  past, 
And  ~>eatl    blest  messenger  of  Heaven's  relief, 

Man,  IK, i    e  the  \vamlerer  to  his  rest  at  last ; 
For  li:u. ,  E  amity  nath  tenfold  day, 
We   feel,  \  5   know,  'tis  thus  — yet  Nature  will 
have   vay. 

What  thoii)  l  amidst  us,  like  a  blasted  oak, 

Saddeniii)  the  scene  where  once  it  nobly  reign'd 
A  dread  tnci  torial  of  the  lightning-stroke. 

Stamu'd  \\  th  its  fiery  record,  he  reinain'd; 
Around  thai  shatter'd  tree  still  fondly  clung 

Tli'  iindyii  s  tendrils  of  our  love,  which  drew 
Fresh  niirtui  >  from  its  deep  decay,  and  sprung 

I,iix.."iant  thence,  to  Glory's  ruin  true  : 
While  L  igland  hung  her  trophies  on  the  stem. 
That  dew.  lately  stood,  unconscious  e'en  of  them. 

Of  tliem  unconscious!  Oh  mysterious  doom! 

WhoshiilH  unfold  the  counsels  of  the  skies! 
His  was  tbe  voice,  which  roused,   as  from  the 
tomb 

Tin;  real. n§  high  soul  to  loftiest  energies! 
His  was  the  «pirit,  o'er  the  isles  which  threw 

The  mantle  of  its  fortitude  ;  and  wrought 
In  every  bos^iii,  powerful  to  renew 

Earfi  dying  «park  of  pure  and  generous  thought  • 
The  star  of  ttjnpest  beaniing  on  the  mast,* 
The  seamen's  torch  of  Hope,  'midst  perils  deepen- 
ing fast. 

Then  from  th'  unslumbering  influence  of  his  worth 

Strength  as  of  inspiration,  til  I'd  the  land; 
A  young,  but  quenchless,  flame  went  brichtly  forth, 

Kindled  by  him — who  saw  it  not  expand! 
Such  was  the  will  of  Heaven,— the  gifted  seer. 

Who  with  his  God  had  communed,  face  to  face, 
And  from  the  house  of  bondage,  and  of  four, 

In  faith  victorious,  led  the  chosen  race ; 
He,  through  the  desert  and  the  waste  their  guide, 
Saw  dimly  from  afar  the  promised  land— and  died. 

O  full  of  days  and  virtues!  on  thy  head 

Centred  the  woes  of  many  a  bitter  lot; 
Fathers  have  sorrow'd  o'er  their  beauteous  dead, 
Eyes,  queuch'd  in  night,  the  sun-beams  have  for- 
got; 

Minds  have  striven  buoyantly  with  evil  years, 
Ami   sunk   beneath  their  glittering  weight  at 

length; 
But  I'ain  for  thee  had  fill'd  a  cup  of  tears. 

Where  every  anguish  mingled  all  its  strength; 
By  thy  lost  child  we  saw  thee  weeping  stand. 
And  shadows  deep  around  fell  from  the  Eternal's 
hand. 

Then  came  the  noon  of  glory,  which  thy  dreams, 

Perchance  of  yore,  had  faintly  prophesied; 
But  what  to  thee  the  splendour  of  its  beams  ? 
The  ice-rock   glowa    not  'midst  the   summer's 

pride ! 
Nations  leap'd  up  to  joy — as  streams  that  burst, 

At  the  warm  touch  of  spring,  their  frozen  chain  ; 
And   o'er  the   plains,  whose  verdure  once  they 

nursed. 

Roll  in  exulting  melody  again  ; 
And  bright  o'er  earth  the  long  majestic  line 
Of  England's  triumphs  swept,  to  rouse  all  hearts 
— but  thine. 

Oh  !  what  a  dazzling  vision,  by  the  veil 

That  o'er  thy  spirit  hung,  was  shut  from  thee, 
When  sceptred  chieftains  throng'd,  with  palms,  to 
hail 

The  crowning  isle,  the  anointed  of  the  sea  I 
Within  thy  palaces  the  lords  of  earth 

Met  to  rejoice,— rich  pageants  glitter'd  by 
And  stately  revels  imaged,  in  their  mirth. 

The  old  niaiMiifieencR  of  chivalry. 


•The  rlitterinr  meteor,  like  a  star,  which  often  appear,  about  a 
ijnp  during  lemiwst.,  if  seen  upon  the  mainmast,  u  considered  by 
fce  iailori  M  an  omen  of  food  weatlier See  Dantpier'i  I'm/of  a 


They  reaclfd  not  thee, — amidst  them,  yet  alone 
Stillness  and  gloom  begirt  one  dim  and  sbudowy 
throne. 

Vet  was  there  mercy  still — if  joy  no  more 

Within  that  blasted  circle  might  intrude, 
Earth  hud  no  grief  whose  footstep  might  pass  o'er 

The  silent  limns  of  its  solitude  ! 
If  all  unheard  the  bridal  song  awoke 

Our  hearts'  full  echoes,  as  it  swell'd  on  high; 
Alike  unheard  the  sudden  dirge,  that  broke 

On  the  glad  strain,  with  dread  solemnity! 
II'  the  land's  rose  unheeded  wore  its  bloom, 
Alike  iintelt  the  storm,  that  swept  it  to  the  tomb. 

And  she,  who,  tried  through  all  the  stormy  past, 

Severely,  deeply  proved,  in  many  an  hour, 
Watch'd  o'er  thee,  Ann  and  faithful  to  the  last, 

S.istain'd,  inspired,  by  strong  affection's  power; 
If  to  thy  soul  her  voice  no  music  bore, 

If  thy  closed  eye,  and  wandering  spirit  caught 
No  light  from  looks,  that  fondly  would  explore 

Thy  mien,  for  traces  of  responsive  thought; 
Oh!  thou  wert  spared  the  pang  that  would  have 

thrill'd 

Thine   inmost   heart,  when   Death  that  anxious 
bosom  still 'd. 

Thy  loved  ones  fell  around  thee — manhood's  prime, 

Youth,  with  its  glory,  in  its  fullness,  Age, 
All  at  the  gates  of  their  eternal  clime 

Lay  down,  and  closed  their  mortal  pilgrimage; 
The  land  wore  ashes  for  its  perish'd  flowers. 

The  grave's  imperial  harvest.  Thou, meanwhile. 
Didst  walk  unconscious  through  thy  royal  towers, 

The  one  that  wopt  not  in  the  tearful  isle! 
As  a  tired  warrior,  on  his  battle-plain. 
Breathes  deep  in  dreams  amidst  the  mourners  and 
the  slain. 

And  who  can  tell  what  visions  might  be  thine? 
The  stream  of  thought,  though  broken,  still  WM 

pure ! 
Still  o'er  that  wave  the  stars  of  heaven  might 

shine. 

Where  earthly  image  would  no  more  endure  I 
Though  many  a  step,  of  once  familiar  sound, 

Came  as  a  stranger's  o'er  thy  closing  ear, 
And  voices  breathed  forgotten  tones  around, 

Which  that  paternal  heart  once  thrill'd  to  hear, 
The  mind  hath  senses  of  its  own,  and  powers 
To  people  boundless  worlds,  in  its  most  wander 
ing  hours. 

Nor  might  the  phantoms  to  thy  spirit  known 

Be  dark  or  wild,  creations  of  remorse  ; 
Unstain'd  by  thee,  the  blameless  past  had  thrown 

No  fearful  shadows  o'er  the  future's  course; 
For  thee  no  cloud,  from  memory's  dread  abyss. 

Might  shape  such  forms  as  haunt  the  tyrant'* 

eye ; 
And  closing  up  each  avenue  of  bliss, 

Murmur  their  summons,  to  "  despair  and  die !" 
No!  e'en  though  joy  depart,  though  reason  cease, 
Still  virtue's  ruin'd  home  is  redolent  of  peace. 

They  might  he  with  thee  still— the  loved,  the  tried, 

The  fair,  the  lost— they  might  be  with  thee  still  I 
More  softly  seen,  in  radiance  purified 

From  each  dim  vapour  of  terrestrial  ill; 
Long  after  earth  received  them,  and  the  note 

Of  th-;  last  requiem  o'er  their  dust  was  pour'd, 
As  passing  sunbeams  o'er  thy  soul  might  float 

Those  forms,  from  us  withdrawn— to  thee  re- 
stored ! 

Spirits  of  holiness,  in  light  reveal'd. 
To  commune  with  a  mind  whose  source  of  tear* 
was  seal'd. 

Came  they  with  tidings  from  the  worlds  above, 

Those  viewless  regions,  where  the  weary  rert  t 
Sever'd  from  earth,  estranged  from  mortal  love. 

Was  thy  mysterious  converse  with  the  blest? 
Or  shone  their  visionary  presence  bright 

With  human  beauty  ?— did  their  smiles  renew 
Those  days  of  sacred  and  serene  delight, 

When  fairest  beings  in  thy  pathway  grew? 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WOKKS. 


Oh  I  Heaven  hath  balm  for  every  wound  it  makes, 
Healing  the  broken  heart;  it  smites— but  ne'er 
forsakes. 

These  may  be  phantasies— and  this  alone, 

Of  all  we  picture  in  our  dreams,  is  sure; 
That  rest,  made  perfect,  is  at  length  thine  own, 

Rest,  in  thy  God  immortally  secure! 
Enough  for  tranquil  faith ;  released  from  all 

The  woes  that  graved  Heaven's  lessons  on  thy 

brow. 
No  cloud  to  dim,  no  fetter  to  enthral, 

Haply  thine  eye  is  on  thy  people  now; 
Whose  love  around  thee  still  its  offerings  shed, 
Though  vainly  sweet  as  flowers,  griefs  tribute  to 
the  dead. 

But  if  tir  ascending,  disembodied  mind. 

Borne  on  the  wingsjof  Morning,  to  the  skies, 
May  cast  one  glance  of  tenderness  behind. 

On  scenes,  once  hallow'd  by  its  mortal  ties, 
How  much  hast  thou  to  gaze  on  !  all  that  lay 

By  the  dark  mantle  of  thy  soul  conceal'd, 
The  might,  the  majesty,  the  proud  array 

Of  England's  march  o'er  many  a  noble  field, 
All  spread  beneath  thee,  in  a  blaze  of  light, 
Shine  like  some  glorious  land,  view'd  from  an  Al- 
pine-height. 

Away  presumptuous  thought ! — departed  saint  I 

To  thy  freed  vision  what  can  earth  display 
Of  pomp,  of  royalty,  that  is  not  faint, 

Seen  from  the  birth-place  of  celestial  day? 
Oh !  pale  and  weak  the  sun's  reflected  rays. 

E'en  in  their  fervour  of  meridian  heat, 
To  him,  who  in  the  sanctuary  may  gaze 

On  the  bright  cloud  that  tills  the  mercy -seat  I 
And  thou  mayest  view,  from  thy  divine  abode, 
The  dust  of  empires  flit,  before  a  breath  of  God. 

And  yet  we  mourn  thee!  yes!  thy  place  is  void 
Within   our  hearts — there  veil'd  thine  image 

dwelt. 

But  cherish 'd  still ;  and  o'er  that  tie  destroy'd, 
Though  Faith  rejoice,  fond  Nature  still  must 

melt. 
Beneath  the  long-loved  sceptre  of  thy  sway, 

Thousands  were  born,  who  now  in  dust  repose, 
And  many  a  head,  with  years  and  sorrows  gray, 
Wore  youth's  bright  tresses,  when  thy  star  arose; 
And  many  a  glorious  mind,  since  that  fair  dawn, 
Hath  till'ii  our  sphere  with  light,  now  to  its  source 
withdrawn. 

Earthquakes  have  rock'd  the  nations :— things  re 
vered, 

Th'  ancestral  fabrics  of  the  world,  went  down 
In  ruins,  from  whose  stones  Ambition  rear'd 

His  lonely  pyramid  of  dread  renown. 
But  when  the  fires,  that  long  had  slumber'd,  pent 

Deep  in  men's  bosoms,  with  volcanic  force, 
Bursting  their  prison-house,  each  bulwark  rent, 

And  swept  each  holy  barrier  from  their  course, 
Firm  and  unmoved,  amidst  that  lava-flood, 
Still,  by  thine  arm  upheld,  our  ancient  landmarks 
stood. 

Be  they  eternal  1— Be  thy  children  found 

Still,  to  their  country's  altars,  true  like  thee ; 
And,  while  "  the  name  of  Briton"  is  a  sound 

Of  rallying  music  to  the  brave  and  free. 
With  the  high  feelings  at  the  word  which  swell, 

To  make  the  breast  a  shrine  for  Freedom's  flame, 
Be  mingled  thoughts  of  him,  who  loved  so  well, 

Who  left  so  pure,  its  heritage  of  fame  ! 
,  Let  earth  with  trophies  guard  the  conqueror's  dust 
4  Heaven  in  our  souls  embalms  the  memory  of  the 
just. 

All  else  shall  pass  away— the  thrones  of  kings, 
The  very  traces  of  their  tombs  depart ; 

But  number  not  with  perishable  things 
The  holy  records  Virtue  leaves  the  heart, 

Heir-looms  from  race  to  race!— and  oh!  in  days, 
When,  by  the  yet  unborn,  thy  deed*  are  blest, 


When  our  sons  learn,  "  as  household  words,"  th) 

praise, 

Still  on  thine  offspring  may  thy  spirit  rest  I 
And  many  a  name  of  that  imperial  line. 
Father  and  patriot  I   blend,  in  England's  songs, 

with  thine ! 


Jttottern  ©frmr. 

A  POEM. 

O  Greece !  thou  sapient  uurse  of  finer  art», 
Which  to  bright  Science  blooming  Fancy  bora, 
Be  this  thy  praise,  that  thou,  and  thou  alone, 
In  these  bait  led  the  way,  iu  these  excell'd, 
Crowu'd  with  the  laurel  of  assenting  Time'. 

T/umuon't  Liberty. 


I. 

OH!  who  hath  trod  thy  consecrated  clime. 
Fair  land  of  Phidias !  theme  of  lofty  strains  ! 
And  traced  each  scene,  that  'midst  the  wrecks 

of  time, 

The  print  of  Glory's  parting  step  retains  ; 
Nor  for  awhile,  in  high-wrought  dreams,  forgot, 
Musing  on  years  gone  by  in  brightness  there, 
The  hopes,  the  fears,  the  sorrows  of  his  lot. 
The  hues  his  fate  hath  worn,  or  yet  may  wear; 
As  when  from  mountain-heights  his  ardent  eye 
Of  sea  and  heaven  hath  track'd  the  blue  infinity 

II. 

Is  there  who  views  with  cold,  unalter'd  mien. 
His  frozen  heart  with  proud  indifference  fraught, 
Each  sacred  haunt,  each  unforgotten  scene. 
Where  Freedom   triumph'd,  or  where  Wisdom 

taught  ? 

Souls  that  too  deeply  feel,  oh,  envy  not 
The  sullen  calm  your  fate  hath  never  known  ; 
Through  the  dull  twilight  of  that  wintry  lot 
Genius   ne'er  pierced,   nor  Fancy's   sunbeam 

shone, 

Nor  those  high  thoughts,  that,  hailing  Glory's  trace 
Glow  with  the  generous  flames  of  every  age  mid 
race. 

III. 

But  blest  the  wanderer,  whose  enthusiast  mind 
Each  muse  of  ancient  days  hath  deep  imbued 
With  lofty  lore  !  and  all  his  thoughts  refined 
In  the  calm  school  of  silent  solitude ; 
Pour'd  on  his  ear,  'midst  groves  and  glens  retired, 
The  mighty  strains  of  each  illustrious  clime, 
All  that  hath  lived,  while  empires  have  expired, 
To  float  for  ever  on  the  winds  of  Time  ; 
And  on  his  soul  indelibly  portray'd 
Fair  visionary  forms,  to  fill  each  classic  shade 

IV. 

Is  not  his  mind,  to  meaner  thoughts  unknown, 
A  sanctuary  of  beauty  and  of  light  ? 
There  he  may  dwell,  in  regions  all  his  own, 
A  world  of  dreams,  where  all  is  pure  and  bright. 
For  him  the  scenes  of  old  renown  possess 
Romantic  charms,  all  veil'd  from  other  eyes  I 
There  every  form  of  nature's  loveliness 
Wakes  in  his  breast  a  thousand  sympathies ; 
As  music's  voice,  in  some  lone  mountain-dell. 
From  rocks  and  caves  around  calls  forth  each  echo's 
swell. 

V. 

For  him  Italia's  brilliant  skies  illume 
The  bard's  lone  haunts,  the  warrior's  combat- 
plains, 

And  the  wild-rose  yet  lives  to  breathe  and  bloom. 
Round  Doric  Peestum's  solitary  fanes.  (I) 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  most,  fair  Greece  !  on  thy  majestic  shore 

He  feels  the  fervours  of  his  spirit  rise ; 

Thou  birth-place  of  the  Muse  1  whose  voice,  of 

yore. 

Breathed  in  thy  groves  immortal  harmonies  ; 

And  lingers  still  around  the  well-known  coast, 

Murmuring  a  wild  farewell  to  fame  and  freedom 

lost 

VI. 

By  seas,  that  flow  in  brightness  as  they  lave 
Thy  rocks,  th'  enthusiast,  rapt  in  thought,  may 

stray, 

While  roves  his  eye  o'er  that  deserted  wave, 
Once  the  proud  scene  of  battle's  dread  array. 
— O  ye  blue  waters !  ye  of  old  that  bore 
The   free,   the   conquering,   hymn'd   by  choral 

strains, 

How  sleep  ye  now  around  the  silent  shore. 
The  lonely  realm  of  ruins  and  of  chains! 
How  are  the  mighty  vanish'd  in  their  pride ! 
E'en  as  their  barks  have  left  no  traces  on  your 

tide. 

VII. 

Hush'd  are  the  Paeans  whose  exulting  tone 
Swell'd  o'er   that   tide  (2)— the  sons  of  battle 

sleep — 

The  wind's  wild  sigh,  the  halcyon's  voice,  alone 
Blend  with  the  plaintive  murmurs  of  the  deep. 
Yet  when  those  waves  have  caught  the  splendid 

hues 

Of  morn's  rich  firmament,  serenely  bright, 
Or  setting  suns  the  lovely  shores  suffuse 
With  all  their  purple  mellowness  of  light. 
Oh !  who  could  view  the  scene,  so  calmly  fair, 
Nor  dream  that  peace,  and  joy,  and  liberty  were 

there  1 

VIII. 

Where  soft  the  sunbeams  play,  the  zephyrs  blow, 
"T  is  hard  to  deem  that  misery  can  be  nigh ; 
Where  the  clear  heavens  in  blue  transparence 

glow. 

Life  should  be  calm  and  cloudless  as  the  sky  : 
—Yet  o'er  the  low,  dark  dwellings  of  the  dead 
Verdure  and  flowers  in  summer-bloom  mayi ?mile, 
And  ivy-boughs  their  graceful  drapery  spread 
In  green  luxuriance  o'er  the  ruin'd  pile  ; 
And  mantling  woodbine,  veils  the  wither'd  tree, — 
And  thus  it  is,  fair  land,  forsaken  Greece!  with 

thee. 

IX. 

For  all  the  loveliness,  and  light,  and  bloom, 
That  yet  are  thine,  surviving  many  a  storm, 
Are  but  as  heaven's  warm  radiance  on  the  tomb, 
The  rose's  blush  that  masks  the  canker-worm:— 
And  thou  art  desolate — thy  morn  hath  pass'd 
So  dazzling  in  the  splendour  of  its  way, 
That  the  dnrk  shades  the  night  hath  o'er  thee 

cast 

Throw  tenx'old  ploom  around  thy  deep  decay. 
Once  proud  in  freedom,  still  in  ruin  fair. 
Thy  fate  hati  been  unmatch'd— in  glory  and  des- 
pair. 

X. 

For  thee,  lost  .and  I  the  hero's  blood  hath  flow'd, 
The  high  in  soul  have  brightly  lived  and  died; 
For  thee  the  light  of  soaring  genius  glow'd 
O'er  the  fair  arts  it  form'd  and  glorified. 
Thine  were  the  minds,  whose  energies  sublime 
So  distanced  ages  in  their  lightning-race, 
The  task  they  left  the  sons  of  later  time 
Was  but  to  follow  their  illumined  trace. 
—  Now,  how'd  to  earth,  thy  children,  to  be  free, 
Must  break  each  link  that  binds  their  filial  hearts 
to  thee 


XI. 

I,o  !  to  the  scenes  of  fiction's  wildest  tales, 
Her  own  bright  East,  thy  son,  Morea!  flies,  (3) 
To  seek  repose  'midst  rich,  romantic  vales, 
Whose  incense  mounts  to  Asia's  vivid  skies. 
There  shall  he  rest? — Alas  I  his  hopes  in  vain 
Guide  to  the  sun-clad  regions  of  the  palm. 
Peace  dwells  not  now  on  oriental  plain. 
Though  earth  is  fruitfulnuss,  and  air  in  balm ; 
And  the  sad  wanderer  finds  but  lawless  foes, 
Where  patriarchs  reign'd  of  old  in  pastoral  repose. 

XII. 

Where    Syria's   mountains   rise,    or  Yemen'* 

groves, 

'  Or  Tigris  rolls  his  genii-haunted  wave. 
Life  to  his  eye,  as  wearily  it  roves. 
Wears  but  two  forms— the  tyrant  and  the  slave  I 
There  the  fierce  Arab  leads  his  daring  horde. 
Where  sweeps  the  sand-storm  o'er  the  burning 

wild. 
There    stern    Oppression    waves    the  wasting 

sword. 

O'er  plains  that  smile,  as  ancient  Eden  smiled; 

And  the  vale's  bosom,  and  the  desert's  gloom, 

Yield  to  the  injured  there  no  shelter  save  the  tomb. 

XIII. 

'  But  thou,  fair  worldl  whose   fresh,  unsullied 

charms 

Welcom'd  Columbus  from  the  western  wave, 
Wilt  thou  receive  the  wanderer  to  thine  arms,  (4 
The  lost  descendant  of  the  immortal  brave? 
Amidst  the  wild  magnificence  of  shades 
That  o'er  thy  floods  their  twilight-grandeur  cast, 
In  the  green  depth  of  thine  untrodden  glades, 
Shall  he  not  rear  his  bower  of  peace  at  last? 
Yes!  thou  hast  many  a  lone,  majestic  scene, 
Shrined  in   primeval  woods,  where  despot   ne'er 
hath  been. 

XIV. 
There,  by  some  lake,  whose  blue,  expansive 

breast 

Bright  from  afar,  an  inland-ocean,  gleams, 
Girt  with  vast  solitudes,  profusely  dress'd 
lu  tints  like  those  that  float  o'er  poet's  dreams; 
Or  where  some  flood  from  pine-clad  mountain 

pours 

Its  might  of  waters,  glittering  in  their  foam, 
'Midst  the  rich  verdure  of  its  wooited  shores, 
The  exiled  Greek  hath  fix'd  his  sylvan  home. 
So  deeply  lone,  that  round  the  wild  retreat 
Scarce  have  the  paths  been  trod  by  Indian  hunts- 
man's feet. 

XV. 

The  forests  are  around  him  in  their  pride, 
The  green  savannas,  and  the  mighty  waves  ; 
And   isles  of  flowers,   bright-floating  o'er  the 

tide,  (5) 

That  images  the  fairy  worlds  it  laves, 
And  stillness,  and  luxuriance — o'er  his  head 
The  ancient  cedars  wave  their  peopled  bowerg. 
On  high  the  palms  their  graceful  foliage  spread, 
Cinctured  with  roses  the  magnolia  towers. 
And  from  those  green  arcades  a  thousand  tonei 
Wake  with  each  breeze,  whose  voice  through  Na- 
ture's temple  moans. 

XVI. 

And  there,  no  traces  left  by  brighter  days, 

For  glory  lost  may  wake  a  sigh  of  grief, 

Some  grassy  mound  perchance  may  meet  hit 

gaze, 

The  lone  memorial  of  an  Indian  chief. 
There  man  not  yet  hath  mark'd  the  boundless 

plain 

With  marble  records  of  his  fame  and  power; 
The  forest  is  his  everlasting  fane. 
The  palm  his  monument,  the  rock  his  tower 
Th'  eternal  torrent,  and  the  giant  tree, 
Remind  him   hut  that  they,  like  him,  are  wildly 
free. 


IIEMANS*  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XVII. 

But  doth  the  exile's  heart  serenely  there 
In  sunshine  dwell? — All!  when  was  exile  bleat? 
When  did  bright  scenes,  clear  heavens,  or  sum- 
mer-air. 

Chase  from  his  soul  the  fever  of  unrest? 
— There  is  a  heart-sick  weariness  of  mood, 
That  like  slow  poison  wastes  the  vital  glow, 
And  shrines  itself  in  mental  solitude, 
An  uncomplaining  and  a  nameless  woe, 
That  coldly  smiles  'midst  pleasure's  brightest  ray, 
4s  the  chill  glacier's  peak  reflects  the  flush  of  day. 

XVIII. 

Such  grief,  is  Iheirs,  who,  fix'd  on  foreign  shore, 
Sigh  for  the  spirit  of  their  native  gales. 
As  pines  the  seaman,  'midst  the  ocean's  roar. 
For  the  green  earth,  with  all  its  woods  and  vales. 
Thus  feels  thy  child,  whose  memory  dwells  with 

thee, 

Loved  Greece!  all  sunk  and  blighted  as  thou  art 
Though  thought  and  step  in  western  wilds  be 

free, 

Yet  thine  are  still  the  day-dreams  of  his  heart ; 
The  deserts  spread  between,  the  billows  foam, 
Tnou,  distant  and  in  chains,  art  yet  his  spirit's 

borne. 

XIX. 

In  vain  for  him  file  gay  liannes  entwine. 
Or  the  green  fire  fly  sparkles  through  the  brakes, 
Or  summer-winds  waft  odours  from  the  pine, 
As  eve's  last  blush  is  dying  on  the  lakes. 
Through  thy  fair  vales  his  fancy  roves  the  while, 
Or  breathes  the  freshness  of  CithiBron's  height. 
Or  dreams   how  softly   Athens'   towers  would 

smile. 

Or  Sunium's  ruins,  in  the  fading  light ; 
On  Corinth's  cliffs  what  sunset  hues  may  sleep, 
Or,  at  that  placid  hour,  how  calm  th'  Egeandeep; 

XX. 

What  scenes,  what  sunbeams,  are  to  him  like 

thine? 

(The  all  of  thine  no  tyrant  could  destroy  !) 
E'en  to  the  stranger's  roving  eye  they  shine, 
Soft  as  a  vision  of  remember'd  joy. 
And  he  who  comes,  the  pilgrim  of  a  day, 
A  passing  wanderer  o'er  each  Attic  hill, 
Sighs  as  his  footsteps  turn  from  thy  decay, 
To  laughing  climes,  where  all  is  splendour  still, 
And  views  with  fond  regret  thy  lessening  shore, 
As  he  would  watch  a  star  that  sets  to  rise  no  more. 

XXI. 

Realm  of  sad  beauty  !  thou  art  as  a  shrine 
That  Fancy  visits  with  Devotion's  zeal. 
To  catch  high  thoughts  and  impulses  divine, 
And  all  the  glow  of  soul  enthusiasts  fe«l 
Amidst  the  tombs  of  heroes — for  the  brave 
Whose  dust,  so  many  an  age,  hath  been  thy  soil, 
Foremost  in  honour's  phalanx,  died  to  save 
The  land  redeem'd  and  hallow'd  by  their  toil ; 
And  there  is  language  in  thy  lightest  gale. 
That  o'er  the  plains  they  won  seems  murmuring 
yet  their  tale. 

XXII. 

And  he,  whose  heart  is  weary  of  the  strife 
Of  meaner  spirits,  and  whose  mental  gaze 
Would  shun  the  dull,  colu  littleness  of  life. 
Awhile  to  dwell  amidst  sublimer  days. 
Must  turn  to  thee,  whose  every  valley  teems 
With  proud  remembrances  that  cannot  die. 
Thy  glens  are  peopled  with  inspiring  dreams, 
Thy  winds,  the  voice  of  oracles  gone  by; 
And  'midst  thy  laurel  shades  the  wanderer  hears 
The  sound  of  mighty  names,  the  hymns  of  vanish- 
ed years 


XXIII. 

Through  that  deep  solitude  be  his  to  stray. 
By  Faun  and  Oread  loved  in  ages  past, 
Where  clear  Peneus  winds  his  rapid  way 
Through  the  cleft  heights,  in  antique  grandem 

vast. 

Romantic  Tempe !  thou  art  yet  the  same- 
Wild,  as  when  sung  by  bards  of  elder  time: (6) 
Years,   that  have  changed   thy   river's  classic 

name,  (7) 

Have  left  thee  still  in  savage  pomp  sublime  ; 
And  from  thine  Alpine  clefts,  and  marble  caves, 
Inlivinglustrestill  break  forththefountain-waves. 

XXIV. 

Beneath  thy  mountain  battlements  and  towers. 
Where  the  rich  arbute's  coral  berries  glow,  (8) 
Or  'midst  th'  exuberance  of  thy  forest  bovvers, 
Casting  deep  shadows  o'er  the  current's  flow. 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  pause,  in  lone  recess. 
As  rock  and  stream  some  glancing  light  have 

caught, 

And  gaze,  till  Nature's  mighty  forms  impress 
His  soul  with  deep  sublimity  of  thought ; 
And  linger  oft,  recalling  many  a  tale, 
That  breeze,  and  wave,  and  wood,  seem  whisper 

ing  through  thy  dale. 

XXV. 

He,  thought-entranced,  may  wander  where  of  old 
From  Delphi's  chasm  the  mystic  vapour  rose. 
And  trembling  nationsheard  theirdoorn  foretold, 
By  the  dread  spirit  throned  'midst   rocks  and 

snows. 

Thoueh  its  rich  fanes  be  blended  with  the  dust 
And  silence  now  the  hallow'd  haunt  possess, 
Still  is  the  scene  of  ancient  rites  august, 
Magnificent  in  mountain  loneliness; 
Still  inspiration  hovers  o'er  the  ground, 
Where  Greece  her  councils  held, (9)  her  Pythian 

victors  crown'd. 

XXVI. 

Or  let  his  steps  the  rude,  gray  cliffs  explore 
Of  that  wild  pass,  once  dyed  with  Spartan  blood, 
When  by  the  waves  that  break  on  CEta's  shore. 
The  few,  the  fearless,  the  devoted  stood  ! 
Or  rove  where,  shadowing  Mantinea's  plain,  • 
Bloom  the  wild  laurels  o'er  the  warlike  dead,  (10) 
Or  lone  PlaUea's  ruins  yet  remain, 
To  mark  the  battle-field  of  ages  fled; 
Still  o'er  such  scenes  presides  a  sacred  power, 
Though   Fiction's  gods  have  fled  from   fountain, 
grot,  and  bower. 

XXVII. 

Oh!  still  unhlamed  may  fancy  fondly  deem 
That,  lingering  yet,  benignant  genii  dwell. 
Where  mortal  worth  has  hallow'd  grove  or 

stream. 

To  sway  the  heart  with  some  ennobling  spell; 
For  mightiest  minds  have  felt  their  blest  control. 
In  the  wood's  murmur,  in  the  zephyr's  sigh, 
And  these  are  dreams  that  lend  a  voice  and  soul. 
And  a  high  power,  to  Nature's  majesty  ! 
And  who  can  rove  o'er  Grecian  shores,  nor  feel, 
Soft  o'er  his  inmost  heart,  their  secret  magic  steal  ? 

XXVIII. 

Yet  many  a  sad  reality  is  there, 

That  fancy's  bright  illusions  cannot  veil. 

Pure  laughs  the  light,  and  balmy  breathes  the 

air. 

But  Slavery's  mien  will  tell  its  hitter  tale; 
And  there  not  Peace,  but  Desolation,  throws 
Delusive  quiet  o'er  full  many  a  scene, 
Deep  as  the  brooding  torpor  of  repose 
That  follows  where  the  earthquake's  track  halh 

been  ; 

Or  solemn  calm,  on  Ocean's  breast  that  lie*. 
When  sinks  the  storm,  and  death  hath  hush'd  the 

seaman's  cries. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


77 


XXIX. 

Hast  thou  beheld  some  sovereign  spirit,  hnrl'd 
By  Fate's  rude  tempest  from  its  radiant  sphere, 
Doom'il  to  resign  the  homage  of  a  world, 
For  Pity's  deepest  sigh,  and  saddest  tear? 
Oh!  hast  thou  watch'd  the  awful  wreck  of  mind, 
That  weareth  still  a  glory  in  decay  ? 
Seen  all  that  dazzles  and  delights  mankind — 
Thought,  science,  genius,  to  the  storm  a  prey, 
And  o'er  the  blasted  tree,  the  wither'd  ground, 
Despair's   wild    nightshade   spread,    and  darkly 
flourish  round  ? 

XXX. 

So  may'st    thou   gaze   ij)   sad   and   awe-struck 

thought, 

On  the  deep  fall  of  that  yet  lovely  clime  : 
Such  there  the  ruin  Time  and  Fate  have  wrought, 
So  changed  the  bright,  the  splendid,  the  sublime  1 
There  the  proud  monuments  of  Valour's  name, 
The  mighty  works  Ambition  piled  on  high. 
The  rich  remains  by  Art  bequeathed  to  Fame — 
Grace,    beauty,  grandeur,  strength,   and    sym- 
metry. 

Blend  in  decay;  while  all  that  yet  is  fair 
Seems  only  spared  to  tell  how  much  hath  perish'd 
here  I 

XXXI. 

There,  while  around  lie  mingling  in  the  dust, 
The  column's  graceful   shaft  with  weeds  o'er 

grown. 

The  mouldering  torso,  the  forgotten  bust. 
The  warrior's  urn,  the  altar's  mossy  stone; 
Amidst  the  loneliness  of  shatter'd  fanes, 
Still  matchless  monuments  of  other  years, 
O'er  cypress  groves,  or  solitary  plains, 
Its  eastern  form  the  minaret  proudly  rears; 
As  on  some  captive  city's  ruin'd  wall 
The  victor's  banner  waves,  exulting  o'er  its  fall. 

XXXII. 

Still,  where  that  column  of  the  mosque  aspires. 
Landmark  of  slavery,  towering  o'er  the  waste, 
There  science  droops,  the  Muses  hush  their  lyres 
And  o'er  the  blooms  of  fancy  and  of  taste 
Spreads  the  chill  blight — as  in  that  orient  isle, 
Where  the  dark  upas  taints  the  gale  around,  (11 
Within  its  precincts  not  a  flower  may  smile, 
Nor  dew  nor  sunshine  fertilize  the  ground  ; 
Nor  wild  bird's  music  float  on  zephyr's  breath, 
But  all  is  silence  round,  and  solitude,  and  death. 


XXXIH. 

Far  other  influence  pour'd  the  Crescent's  light. 
O'er  conquer'd  realms,  in  ages  past  away  ! 
Full  and  alone  it  beam'd,  intensely  bright, 
While  distant  climes  in  midnight  darkness  lay. 
Then  rose  tli'  Alhnmbra,  with   its  founts  and 

shades, 

Fair  marble  halls,  alcoves,  and  orange  bowers  • 
Irs  sculptured  lions,  (12)  richly  wrought  arcades, 
Aeriil  pillars,  and  enchanted  towers; 
Light,  cplendid,  wild  as  some  Arabian  talo 
Would  picture  fairy  domes,  that  fleet  before  the 
gale. 

XXXIV. 

Then  foster'd  genius  lent  each  Caliph's  throne 
Lustre  barbaric  pomp  could  ne'er  attain  ; 
And  stars  nnnumber'd  o'er  the  orient  shone. 
Bright    as    that    Pleiad,    shrined    in    Mecca's 

fane.  (i:<) 

From  Bagdat's  palaces,  the  choral  strains 
Rose  and  re-echoed  to  the  desert's  bound. 
And  Science,  woo'don  Egypt's  burning  plains, 
Rear'd  her  majestic  head  with  glory  crown'd  ; 
And  the  wild  Muses  breathed  romantic  lore, 
From  Syria's  palmy  groves  to  Andalusia's  shore. 


XXXV. 

Those  years  have  pass'd  in  radiance — they  h«v« 

pass'd, 

As  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  tropic  main  ; 
His  parting  beams  no  soft  reflection  cast. 
They  burn— are  quench'd — and  deepest  shadows 

reign, 

And  Fame  and  Science  have  not  left  a  trace, 
In  the  vast  regions  of  the  Moslem's  power,— 
Regions,  to  intellect  a  desert  space, 
A  wild  without  a  fountain  or  a  flower, 
Where  towers  oppression  'midst  the  deepening 

glooms, 
As  dark  and  lone  ascends  the  cypress  'midst  the 

tombs. 

XXXVI. 

Alas  forthee,  fair  Greece  !  when  Asia  pour'd 
Her  tierce  fanatics  to  Byzantium's  wall. 
When  Europe  sheathed,  in  apathy,  her  sword 
And  heard  unmoved  the  fated  city's  call, 
No  bold  crusaders  ranged  their  serried  line 
Of  spears  and  banners  round  a  falling  throne  ; 
And  thou,  O  last  and  noblest  Constantine  !  (14] 
Didst  meet  the  storm  unshrinking  and  alor.e. 
Oh!  blest  to  die  in  freedom,  though  in  vain, 
Thine  empire's  proud  exchange  the  grave,  and 
not  the  chain. 

XXXVII. 

Hush'd  is  Byznntinm— 't  is  the  dead  of  night— 
The  closing  night  of  that  imperial  race!  (16) 
And  all  is  vigil  — but  the  eye  of  light 
Shall  soon  unfold,  a  wilder  scene  to  trace; 
There  is  a  murmuring  stillness  on  the  train. 
Thronging  tlie  midnight  streets,  at  morn  to  die  ; 
And  to  the  cross  in  fair  Sophia's  fane, 
For  the  last  time  is  raised  Devotion's  pye ; 
And.  in  his  heart  while  fnith's bright  visions  rise. 
There  kneels  the  high-snul'd  prince,  the  summon'd 
of  the  skies. 

XXXVIII. 

Day  breaks  in  light  and  glory — 't  is  the  flour, 
Of  conflict  and  of  fate—  the  war-note  calls- 
Despair  hath  lent  a  stern,  delirious  power 
To  the  brave  few  that  guard  the  rampart  walls 
Far  o'er  Marmora's  waves  th'  artillery's  peal 
Proclaims  an  empire's  doom  in  every  note; 
Tambour  and  trumpet  swell  the  clash  of  steel, 
Hound  spire  and  dome  the  clouds  of  battle  float , 
From  camp  and  wave  rush  on  the  crescent's  host. 
And  the  Seven  Towers (16)  are  scaled,  and  all  is 
won  and  lost. 

XXXIX. 

Then,  Greece!  the  tempest  rose,  that  burst  on 

thee. 

Land  of  the  bard,  the  warrior,  and  the  sage! 
Oh!  where  were  then  thy  sons,  the  great,  the  free. 
Whose  deeds  are  guiding  stars  from  age  to  nge? 
Though  firm  thy  battlements  of  crags  and  snows, 
And  bright  the  memory  of  thy  days  of  pride, 
In  mountain-might  tho'  Corinth's  fortress  rose. 
On,  unresisted,  roll'd  th'  invading  tide! 
Oh!  vain  the  rock,  the  rampart,  and  the  tower, 
If  Freedom  guard  them  not  with  Mind's  uncon- 

quer'd  power. 

XL. 

Where  were  th'  avengers  then,  whose  viewless 

might 

Preserved  inviolate  their  awful  fane,  (17) 
When    through    the    steep  defiles,  to   Delphi's 

height. 

In  martial  splendour  pour'd  the  Persian's  train? 
Then  did  those  mighty  and  mysterious  Powers, 
Arm'd  with  the  elements,  to  vengeance  wake, 
Call   the  dread  storms  to  darken   round   their 

towers. 

Hurl  down  the  rocks,  and  bid  the  thunders  break; 
Till  far  around,  with  deep  and  fearful  clang. 
Sounds  of  unearthlv  war  through  wild  Parnassus 

rang 


78 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XLI. 

Where  was  the  spirit  of  the  victor-throng, 
Whose  tombs  are  glorious  by  Scamander's  tide 
Whose  names  are  bright  in  everlasting  song, 
The  lords  of  war,  the  praised,  the  deified  1 
Where  he,  the  hero  of  a  thousand  lays, 
Who  from  the  dead  at  Marathon  arose  (18) 
All  arm'd  ;  and  beaming  on  th'  Athenians'  ga: 
A  battle-meteor,  guided  to  their  foes  ? 
Or  they  whose  forms,  to  Alaric's  awe-struck 

eye,  (19) 
Hovering  o'er  Athens,  blazed,  in  airy  panoply  ? 

XLII. 

Ye  slept,  oh  heroei!  chief  ones  of  the  earth!(20 
High  demi-gods  of  ancient  days !  ye  slept : 
There  lived  no  spark  of  your  ascendant  worth, 
When  o'er  your  land  the  victor  Moslem  swept; 
No  patriot  then  the  sons  of  freedom  led, 
In  mountain-pass  devotedly  to  die  ; 
The  m&rtyr-spirit  of  resolve  was  fled, 
And  the  high  soul's  unconquer'd  buoyancy; 
And  by  yoar  graves,  and  on  your  battle-plains, 
Warriors!  yoa?  children  knelt,  to  wear  the  stran 
ger's  rl.ains. 

XLIII. 

Now  have  your  trophies  vanish'd,  and  your  hornet 
Are  moulder'd  fiun  the  earth,  while  scarce  re. 

main 

E'en  the  faint  traces  of  the  ancient  tombs 
That  mark  where  uleepthe  slayers  or  the  slain. 
Your  deeds  are  with  the  deeds  of  glory  flown, 
The  lyres  are  hush'd  that  swell'd  your  fame  afai 
The  halls  that  echoed  to  their  sounds  are  gone, 
Perish'd    the   conquering    weapons    of    your 

war;  (21) 

And  if  a  massy  stone  your  names  retain, 
T  is  but  to  tell  your  sons,  for  them  ye  died  in  vail* 

XLIV. 

Yet,  where  some  lone  sepulchral  relic  stands, 
That  with  those  names  tradition  hallows  yet, 
Oft  shall  the  wandering  son  of  other  lands 
Linger  in  solemn  thought  and  hush'd  regret. 
And  still  have  legends  mark'd  the  lonely  boot 
Where  low  the  dust  of  Agamemnon  lies ; 
And  shades  of  kings  and  leaders  unforgot, 
Hovering  around,  to  fancy's  vision  rise. 
Souls  of  the  heroes  I  seek  your  rest  again, 
Nor  mark  how  changed  the  realms  that  saw  you* 
glories  reign. 

XLV. 

Lo,  where  th'  Albanian  spreads  his  despot  evfcv 
O'er  Thessaly's  rich  vales  and  glowing  plains 
Whose  sous  in  sullen  abjectness  obey. 
Nor  lift  the  hand  indignant  at  its  chains ; 
Oh!  doth  the  land  that  gave  Achilles  birth, 
And  many  a  chief  of  old,  illustrious  line. 
Yield  not  one  spirit  of  unconquer'd  worth, 
To  kindle  those  that  now  in  bondage  pine  ? 
No!  on  its  mountain-air  is  slavery's  breath, 
\nd  terror  chills  the  hearts  whose  utter'd  plaint* 
were  death. 

XLVI. 

Yet  if  thy  light,  fair  Freedom,  rested  there, 
How  rich  in  charms  were  that  romantic  clime, 
With  streams,  and  woods,  and  pastoral  valleys 

fair, 

And  wall'd  with  mountains,  haughtily  sublime. 
Heights,  that  might  well  be  deem'd  the  Muses' 

reign, 

Since,  claiming  proud  alliance  with  the  skici, 
They  lose  in  loftier  spheres  their  wild  domain : 
Meet  home  for  those  retired  divinities 
That  love,  where  naught  of  earth  may  e'er  in- 
trude, 
Brightly  to  dwell  on  high,  in  lonely  sanctitnde. 


XLVII. 

There  in  rude  grandeur,  daringly  ascends 
Stern  Pindus,  rearing  many  a  pine-clad  height: 
He  with  the  clouds  his  bleak  dominion  blends, 
Frowningo'er  vales,  in  woodland  verdure  bright. 
Wild  and  august  in  consecrated  pride, 
There  through  the  deep-blue  heaven  Olympus 

towers, 

Girtt'ed  with  mists,  light-floating  as  to  hide 
The  rock-built  palace  of  immortal  powers; 
Where  far  on  high  the  sunbeam  finds  repose, 
Amidst  th'  eternal  pomp  of  forests  and  of  snows. 

XLVIII. 

Those  savage  hills  and  solitudes  might  seem 
The  chosen  haunts  where  Freedom's  foot  would 

roam; 

She  lovbs  to  dwell  by  glen  and  torrent-stream, 
And  make  the  rocky  fastnesses  her  home. 
And  in  the  rushing  of  the  mountain-flood. 
In  the  wild  eagle's  solitary  cty, 
In  sweeping  winds  that  peal  through  cave  and 

wood, 

There  is  a  voice  of  stern  sur.limity, 
That  swells  her  spirit  to  a  loftier  mood 
Of  solemn  joy  severe,  of  power,  of  fortitude. 

XLIX. 

But  from  those  hills  the  radiance  of  her  smile 
Hath  vanish'd  long,  her  step  hath  fled  afar; 
O'erSuli's  frowning  rocks  she  paused  awhile,(22) 
Kindling  the  watch-fires  of  the  mountain-war; 
And  brightly  glow'd  her  ardent  spirit  there. 
Still  brightest  'midst  privation :  o'er  distress 
It  cast  romantic  splendour,  and  despair 
But  fann'd  that  beacon  of  the  wilderness: 
And  rude  ravine,  and  precipice  and  dell 
Sent  their  deep  echoes  forth,  her  rallying  voice  to 
swell. 

L. 
Dark   children    of  the    hills  1    't  was  then  ye 

wrought 

Deeds  of  fierce  daring,  rudely,  sternly  grand  i 
As  'midst  your  craggy  citadels  ye  fought, 
And  women  mingled  with  your  warrior-band. 
Then  on  the  cliff  the  frantic  mother  stood  (23) 
High  o'er  the  river's  darkly-rolling  wave, 
And  hurl'd,  in  dread  delirium,  to  the  flood. 
Her  free-born  infant,  ne'er  to  be  a  slave. 
For  all  was  lost— all,  save  the  power  to  die 
The  wild,  indignant  death  of  savage  liberty. 

LI. 

Now  is  that  strife  a  tale  of  vanish'd  days, 
With  mightier  things  forgotten  soon  to  lie; 
Yet  oft  hath  minstrel  sung,  in  lofty  lays. 
Deeds  less  adventurous,  energies  less  high. 
And  the  dread  struggle's  fearful  memory  still 
O'er  each  wild  rock  a  wilder  aspect  throws  ; 
Sheds  darker  shadows  o'er  the  frowning  hill, 
More  solemn  quiet  o'er  the  glen's  repose ; 
Lends  to  the  rustling  pines  a  deeper  moan, 
And  the  hoarse  river's  voice  a  murmur  not  its  own. 

HI. 

For  stillness  now — the  stillness  of  the  dead, 
Hath  wrapt  that  conflict's  lone  and  awful  scene, 
And  man's  forsaken  homes,  in  ruin  spread. 
Tell  where  the  storming  of  the  cliffs  hath  been. 
And  there,  o'er  wastes  magnificently  rude. 
What  race  may  rove,  unconscious  of  the  chain? 
Those  realms  have  now  no  desert  unsubdued, 
Where  Freedom's  banner  may  be  rear'd  again. 
Sunk  are  the  ancient  dwellings  of  her  fame,        i 
The  children  of  her  sons  inherit  but  their  name. 

LIII. 

Go,  seek  proud  Sparta's  monuments  and  fanes! 
In  scatter'd  fragments  o'er  the  vale  they  lie ; 
Of  all  they  wero  not  e'en  enough  remains, 
To  lend  their  fall  »  mournful  majesty.  (24) 


REMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Birth-place  of  those  whose  names  we  first  r^ 

vered 

In  song  and  story — temple  of  the  free ! 
Oh  thou,  the  stern,  the  haughty,  and  the  fear'd, 
Are  such  thy  relics,  and  can  this  be  thee  I 
Thou  shouldst  have  left  a  giant-wreck  behind, 
And  e'en  in  ruin  claim'd  the  wonder  of  mankind. 

LIV. 

For  thine  were  spirits  cast  in  other  mould 
Than  all  beside — and  proved  by  ruder  test; 
They  stood  alone — the  proud,  the  firm,  the  bold, 
With  the  same  seal  indelibly  imprest. 
Theirs  were  no  bright  varieties  of  mind. 
One  image  stamp'd  the  rough,  colossal  race. 
In  rugged  grandeur  frowning  o'er  mankind. 
Stern,  and  disdainful  of  each  milder  grace. 
As  to  the  sky  some  mighty  rock  may  tower. 
Whose  front  can  brave  the  storm,  but  will    not 
bear  the  flower. 

LV. 

Such  were  thy  sons— their  life  a  battle-day  I 
Their  youth  one  lesson  how  for  thee  to  die  ! 
Closed  is  t  .j.1  task,  and  they  have  pnss'd  away 
Like  softei  beings  train'd  to  aims  less  high. 
Yet  bright  on  earth  their  fame  who  proudly  fell, 
True  to  their  shields,  the  champion  of  thy  cause, 
Whose  funeral  column  bade  the  stranger  tell 
How  died  the  brave,  obedient  to  thy  laws  1(35) 
O  lofty  mother  of  heroic  worth, 
How  conlilst  thou  live  to  bring  a  meaner  offspring 
forth  1 

LVI. 

Hadst  thou  but  perish'd  with  the  free,  nor  known 
A  second  race,  when  Glory's  noon  went  by, 
Then  had  thy  name  in  sinjle  brightness  shone 
A  watch-word  cm  the  helm  of  liberty  1 
Thou  shouldst  have  pass'd  with  all  thy  light  of 

fame, 

And  proudly  sunk  in  ruins,  not  in  chains 
But  sJowly  set  thy  star  'midst  clouds  of  shame, 
And  tyrants  rose  amidst  the  falling  fanes; 
And  thou,  surrounded  hy  thy  warriors'  graves, 
Hast  drain'd  the  bitter  cup  once  mingled  for  thy 


LVII. 

Now  all  is  o'er— for  thee  alike  are  flown 
Freedom's  bright  noon,  and  Slavery's  twilight 

cloud ; 

And  in  thy  fall,  as  in  thy  pride,  alone, 
Deep  solitude  is  round  thee,  as  a  shroud. 
Home  of  Leonidas!  thy  halls  are  low, 
From  their  cold  altars  have  thy  Lares  fled. 
O'er  thee  unrnark'd  the  sun-beams  fade  or  glow, 
And  wild  flowers  wave,  unbent  by  human  tread, 
And  'midst  thy  silence,  as  the  grave's  profound, 
A  voice,  a  step  would  seem  as  some  unearthly 
sound. 

LVIII. 

Taygetus  still  lifts  his  awful  brow, 
High  o'er  the  mould'ring  city  of  the  dead. 
Sternly  sublime  ;  while  o'er  his  robe  of  snow 
Heaven's  floating  tints  their  warm  suffusions 

spread. 

And  yet  his  rippling  wave  Eurotas  leads 
By  tombs  and  ruins  o'er  the  silent  plain, 
While  whispering  there,  his  own  wild  graceful 

reeds 

Rise  as  of  old,  when  hail'd  by  classic  strain  ; 
There  the  rose-laurels  still  in  beauty  wave,  (2(i) 
And  a  frail  shrub  survives  to  bloom  o'er  Sparta's 

grave. 

LIX. 

Oh!  thus  it  is  with  man— a  tree,  a  flower. 
While  nntions  perish,  still  renews  its  race. 
And  o'er  the  fallen  records  of  his  power 
Spread*  in  wild  pomp,  or  smiles  in  fairy  grace. 
Thn  laurel  shoots  when  those  have  pass'd  away 
( >uce  rivals  for  its  crown,  the  brave,  the  free; 
The  rose  is  flourishing  o'er  beauty's  clay. 


The  myrtle  blows  when  love  hath  ceased  to  be ; 
Green  waves  the  buy  when  song  and  bard  are 

fled, 
And  all  that  round  us  blooms,  is  blooming  o'er  the 

dead. 

LX. 

And  still  the  olive  spreads  its  foliage  round 

Morea's  fallen  sanctuaries  and  towers, 

Once    its   green    boughs   Minerva's   votaries 

crown'd, 

Deem'd  a  meet  offering  for  celestial  powers. 
The  suppliant's  hand  its  holy  branches  bore;  (27) 
They  waved  around  th'  Olympic  victor's  head; 
And,  sanctified  by  many  a  rite  of  yore, 
Its  leaves  the  Spartan's  honour'd  biero'erspread: 
Those   rites  have  vanish'd — but  o'er  vale   and 

hill 
Its  fruitful  groves  arise,  revered   and  hallow'd 

still.  (28) 

LXI. 

Where  now  thy  shrines,  Eleusis !  where  thy  fane 
Of  fearful  visions,  mysteries  wild  and  high? 
The  pomp  of  rites,  the  sacrificial  train, 
The  long  procession's  awful  pageantry  ? 
duench'd  is  the  torch  of  Ceres  (2!>)— all  around 
Decay  hath  spread  the  stillness  of  her  reign. 
There  never  more  shall  choral  hymns  resound, 
O'er  the  hush'd  earth  and  solitary  main  ; 
Whose  wave  from  Salamis  deserted  flows, 
To  bathe  a  silent  shore  of  desolate  repose. 

LXI  I. 

And  oh  !  ye  secret  and  terrific  powers, 
Dark  oracles!  in  depth  of  proves  that  dwelt. 
How  are  they  sunk,  the  altars  of  your  bowers, 
Where  superstition  trembled  as  she  knelt ! 
Ye,  the  unknown,  the  viewless  ones  !  that  made 
The  elements  your  voice,  the  wind  and  wave; 
Spirits !  whose  influence  darken'd  many  a  shade. 
Mysterious  visitants  of  fount  and  cave  ! 
How  long  your  power  the  awe-struck  nation 

sway'd, 
How  long  earth  dreamt  of  you,  and  shudderingly 

obey'd ! 

LXIII. 

And  say,  what  marvel,  in  those  early  days. 
While  yet  the  light  of  heaven-born  truth  was 

not. 

If  man  around  him  cast  a  fearful  gaze, 
Peopling  with  shadowy  powers  each  dell  and 

grot? 

Awful  in  Nature  in  her  savage  forms, 
Her  solemn  voice  commanding  in  its  might. 
And  mystery  then  was  in  the  rush  of  storms. 
The  gloom  of  woods,  the  majesty  of  night; 
And  mortals  heard  fate's  language  in  the  blast, 
And  rear'd  your  forest-shrines,  ye  phantoms  of  the 

past! 

LXIV. 

Then  through  the  foliage  not  a  breeze  might  sigh 
But  with  prophetic  sound— a  waving  tree, 
A  meteor  flashing  o'er  the  summer  sky, 
A  bird's  wild  flight,  reveal'd  the  things  to  be. 
All  spoke  of  unseen  natures  and  convey'd 
Their  inspiration;  still  they  hover'd  round, 
Hallow'd    the  temple,  whisper'd  through   the 

shade. 

Pervaded  loneliness,  gave  soul  to  sound  ; 
Of  them  the  fount,  the  forest,  murmur'd  still. 
Their  voice  was  in  the  stream,  their  footstep  on 

the  hill. 

LXV. 

Now  is  the  train  of  Superstition    own, 
Unearthly  Beings  walk  on  earth  no  more; 
The  deep  wind  swells  with  no  portentous  tone, 
The  rustling  wood  breathes  no  fatiilic  lore, 
Fled  are  the  phantoms  of  Livn-tia's  cave. 
There  dwell  no  shadows,  hut  of  crag  and  steept 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WOKKS. 


Fount  of  Oblivion  !  in  thy  gushing  wave,  (30) 
That  murmurs  nigh,  those  powers  of  terror  sleep, 
Oh !  that  such  dreams  alone  had  fled  that  clime. 
But  grace  is  changed  in  all  that  could  be  changnd 
by  time  ! 

LXVI. 

Her  skies  are  those  whence  many  a  mighty  bard 
Caught  inspiration,  glorious  as  their  beams: 
Her  hills  the  same  that  heroes  died  to  guard. 
Her  vales,  that  foster'd  art's  divinest  dreams! 
But  that  bright  spirit  o'er  the  land  that  shone, 
And  all  around  pervading  influence  pour'd, 
Thai  lent  the  harp  of  jEschylus  its  tone, 
And  proudly  hallow'd  Lacedffimon's  gword, 
And  guided  Phidias  o'er  the  yielding  stone, 
With  them  its  ardours  lived — with  them  its  light 
is  flown. 

LXVII. 

Thebes,  Corinth,  Argos!— ye,  renown 'd  of  old, 
Where  are  your  chiefs  of  high  romantic  name  I 
How  soon  the  tale  of  ages  may  be  told  1 
A  page,  a  verse,  records  the  fall  of  fame. 
The  work  of  centuries — we  gaze  on  you, 
Oh  cities!  once  the  glorious  and  the  free. 
The  lofty  tales  thalcharm'd  our  youth  renew, 
And  wondering  ask,  if  these  their  scenes  could 

be? 

Search  for  the  classic  fane,  the  regal  tomb, 
And  find  the  mosque  alone— a  record  of  their 

doom  ! 

LXVIII. 

How  oft  hath  war  his  host  of  spoilers  ponr'd, 
Fair  Eli*  !  o'er  thy  consecrated  vales? (31) 
There  have  the  sunbeams  glanced  on  spear  and 

sword. 

And  banners  floated  on  the  balmy  gales. 
Once  didst  thou  smile,  secure  in  sanctitude, 
As  some  enchanted  isle  'mid  stormy  seas ; 
On  thee  no  hostile  footstep  might  intrude. 
And  pastoral  sounds  alone  were  on  thy  breeze. 
Forsaken  home  of  peace!  that  t-pell  is  broke, 
Thou  too  hast  heard  the  storm  and  bow'd  beneatb 
the  yoke. 

LXIX. 

And  through  Arcadia's  wild  and  lone  retreats 
Far  other  sounds  have  echo'd  than  the  strain 
Of  faun  and  dryad,  from  their  woodland  seats, 
Or  ancient  reed  of  peaceful  mountain-swain  1 
There,  though  at  times  Alpheusyet  surveys. 
On  his  green  banks  renew'd,  the  classic  dance, 
And  nymph-like  forms,  and  wild  melodious  lays. 
Revive  the  sylvan  scenes  of  old  romance ; 
Yet  brooding  fear  and  dark  suspicion  dwell, 
Midat  Pan's  deserted  haunts,  by  fountain,  cave, 
and  dell. 

LXX. 

But  thou,  fair  Attica  1  whose  rocky  bound 
All  art  and  nature's  richest  gifts  enshrined, 
Thou  little  sphere,  whose  soul-illumined  round 
Concentrated  each  sunbeam  of  the  mind; 
Who,  as  the  summit  of  some  Alpine  height 
Glows  earliest,  latest,  with  the  blush  of  day. 
Didst  first  imbibe  the  splendours  of  the  light, 
And  smile  the  longest  in  its  lingering  ray  ;  (32) 
Oh !  let  us  gaze  on  thee,  and  fondly  deem 
The  past  awhile  restored,  the  present  but  a  dream. 

LXXI. 

Let  Fancy's  vivid  hues  awhile  prevail— 
Wake  at  her  call — be  all  thou  wert  once  more! 
Hark,  hymns  of  triumph  swell  on  every  gale  ! 
Lo,  bright  processions  move  along  thy  shore  ' 
Again  thy  temples  'midst  the  olive-shade, 
Lovely  in  chaste  simplicity  arise  ; 
And  graceful  monuments,  in  grove  and  glade, 
Catch  the  warm  tints  of  thy  resplendent  skies; 
And  sculptured  forms,  of  high  and  heavenly  mien, 
In   their  calm   beauty  smile,   around  the  sun- 
bright  scene. 


LXXII. 

Again  renew'd  by  thought's  creative  spell*, 
In  all  her  pomp  thy  city,  Theseus!  towers: 
Within,  around,  the  light  of  glory  dwells 
On  art's  fair  fabrics,  wisdom's  holy  bowers. 
There  marble  fanes  in  finish'd  grace  ascend. 
The  pencil's  world  of  life  and  beauty  glows; 
Shrines,  pillars,  porticoes,  in  grandeur  blend, 
Rich  with  the  trophies  of  barbaric  foes, 
And  groves  of  platane  wave  in  verdant  pride 
The  sage's  blest  retreats,  by  calm  llissus'  tide. 

Lxxni. 

Bright  as  that  fairy  vision  of  the  wave, 
Raised  by  the  magic  of  Morgana's  wand,  (33) 
On  summei  seas,  that  undulating  lave 
Romantic  Sicily's  Arcadian  strain!  : 
That  pictured  scene  of  airy  colonnades. 
Light  palaces,  in  shadowy  glory  drest. 
Enchanted  groves,  and  temples,  and  arcades, 
Gleaming  and  floating  on  the  ocean's  breast; 
Athens!  thus  fair  the  dream  of  thee  appears, 
As  Fancy's  eye  pervades  the  veiling  cloud  of  yean 

LXX  IV. 

Still  be  that  cloud  withdrawn — oh !  mark  on  high. 
Crowning  yon  hill,  with  temples  richly  graced. 
That  fane  august  in  perfect  symmetry. 
The  purest  model  of  Athenian  taste. 
Fair  Parthenon!  thy  Doric  pillars  rise, 
In  simple  dignity  thy  marble's  hue 
Unsullied  shines,  relieved  by  brilliant  skies. 
That  round  thee  spread  their  deep  ethereal  blue; 
And  art  o'er  all  thy  licht  proportions  throws 
The  harmony  of  grace,  the  beauty  of  repose. 

LXXV. 

And  !.»vely  o'er  thee  sleeps  the  sunny  glow. 
When  morn  and  eve  in  tranquil  splendour  reign. 
And  on  lliy  sculptures,  as  they  smile,  bestow 
Hues  thai  the  pencil  emulates  in  vain. 
Then  the  fair  forms  by  Phidias  wrought,  unfold 
Each  latent  grace,  developing  in  licht, 
Catch  from  soft  clouds  of  purple  and  of  eold. 
Each  tint  that  passes,  tremulously  bright  ; 
And  seem  indoM  whate'er  devotion  deems, 
U  hile  so  suffused  with  heaven,  so  mingling  with 
its  beams 

LXXVI. 

But  oh!  what  words  the  vision  may  portray. 
The  form  of  sanctitude  that  guards  thy  shrine? 
There  stands  thy  goddess,  robed  in  war's  array, 
Supremely  glorious,  awfully  divine  ! 
With  spear  and  helm  she  stands,  and  flowing 

vest. 

And  sculptured  ffigis,  to  perfection  wrought, 
And  on  each  heavenly  lineament  imprest. 
Calmly  sublime,  the  majesty  of  thought  ; 
The  pure  intelligence,  the  chaste  repose, — 
All  that  a  poet's  dream  around  Minerva  throws. 

LXXVII. 

Bright  age  of  Pericles!  let  fancy  still 

Through  Time's  deep  shadows  all  thy  splendour 

trace. 

And  in  each  work  of  art's  consummate  skill 
Hail  the  free  spirit  of  thy  lofty  race. 
That  spirit,  roused  by  every  proud  reward. 
That  hope  could  picture,  glory  could  bestow, 
Foster'd  by  all  the  sculptor  and  the  bard 
Could  give  of  immortality  below. 
Thus  were   thy  heroes   form'd,  and   o'er  their 

name 
Thus  did  thy  genius  shed  imperishable  fame. 

LXXVIII 

Mark  in  the  throng'd  Ceramicus,  the  train 
Of  mourners  weeping  o'er  thn  martyr'd  brave: 
Proud  be  the  tears  devoted  to  the  slain, 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


31 


Holy  the  amaranth  strew'd  upon  their  grave! (34) 
And  hark — iinrivall'd  eloquence  proclaims 
Their  deeds,   their   trophies,    with  triumphant 

voice! 

Hark — Pericles  records  their  hnnour'dnames!(35) 
Sons  of  the  fallen,  in  their  lot  rejoice: 
What  hath  life  brighter  than  so  bright  a  doom? 
What  power  hath  fate  to  soil  the  garlands  of  the 

tomb  ? 

LXX1X. 

Praise  to  the  valiant  dead  !  for  them  doth  art 
Exhaust  her  skill,  their  triumphs  bodying  forth; 
Theirs  are  enshrined  names,  and  every  heart 
Shall  bear  the  blazon'd  impress  of  their  worth. 
Bright  on  the  dreams  of  youth  their  fame  shall 

rise, 

Their  fields  of  fight  shall  epic  song  record. 
And  when  the  voice  of  battle  rends  the  skies, 
Their   name  shall   be   their  country's  rallying 

word ! 

While  fane  and  column  rise  august  to  tell 
How  Athens  honours  those  for  her  who  proudly 

fell. 

LXXX. 

City  of  Theseus  !  bursting  on  the  mind, 
Thus  dost  thon  rise,  in  all  thy  glory  fled  ! 
Thus  guarded  by  the  mighty  of  mankind, 
Thus  hallow'd  by  the  memory  of  the  dead ; 
Alone  in  beauty  and  renown — a  scene 
Whose  tints  are  drawn  from  freedom's  loveliest 

ray. 

'T  is  but  a  vision  now — yet  thou  hast  been 
More  than  the  brightest  vision  might  portray; 
And  every  stone,  with  but  a  vestige  fraught 
Ofthee,  hath  latent  power  to  wake  some  lofty 

thought. 

LXXX  I. 

Fallen  are  thy  fabrics,  that  so  oft  have  rung 
To  choral  melodies,  and  tragic  lore; 
Now  is  the  lyre  of  Sophocles  unstrung, 
The  song  that  liail'd  Bar  modi  UP  peals  no  more. 
Thy  proud  Pirsus  is  a  desert  strand. 
Thy  stately  shrines  are  mouldering  on  their  hill, 
Closed  are  the  triumphs  of  the  sculptor's  hand, 
The  magic  voice  of  eloquence  is  still; 
Minerva's  veil  is  rent  (36) — her  image  gone, 
Bilent  the  sage's  bower— the  warrior's  tomb  o'er- 
thrown. 

LXXXII. 

Yet  in  decay  thine  exquisite  remains 
Wondering  we  view,  and  silently  revere 
As  traces  left  on  earth's  forsaken  plains 
By  vanish'd  beings  of  a  nobler  sphere ! 
Not  all  the  old  magnificence  of  Rome, 
All  that  dominion  there  hath  left  to  time, 
Proud  Coliseum,  or  commanding  dome, 
Triumphal  nrch.  or  obelisk  sublime. 
Can  bid  such  reverence  o'pr  the  spirit  steal 
As  aught  by  thee  imprest  with  beauty's  plastic  seal. 

Lxxxiir. 

Though  still  the  empress  of  the  sun-burnt  waste, 

Palmyra  rises,  desolately  grand— 

Though  with  rich  gold  (37)  and  massy  sculpture 

graced, 

Commanding  still,  Persepolis  may  stand 
In  haughty  solitude— though  sacred  Nile 
The  first-born  temples  of  the  world  surveys, 
And  many  an  awful  and  stupendous  pile 
Thebes  of  the  hundred  gates  e'en  yet  display*; 
City  of  Pericles  !  oh,  who  like  thee 
"an  teach  how  fair  the  works  of  mortal  hand  may 
be  ? 

LXXXIV. 

Thou  led'st  the  way  to  that  immortal  sphere 
Where   sovereign   beauty  dwells;  and   thence 

didst  bear 

Oh,  still  triumphant  in  that  high  career ! 
Bright  archetypes  of  all  the  grand  and  fair 

6 


And  still  to  thee  th'  enlighten'd  mind  hath  flown. 
As  to  her  country  ; — thon  bast  been  to  earth 
A  cynosure:  and  e'en  from  victory's  throne, 
Imperial  Rome  gave  homage  to  thy  worth; 
And  nations,  rising  to  their  fame  afar. 
Still  to  thy  model  turn,  as  seamen  to  their  star. 

LXXXV. 

Glory  to  those  whose  relics  thus  arrest 
The  gaze  of  ages!  Glory  to  the  free! 
For  they,  they  only,  could  have  thus  imprest 
Their  mighty  image  on  the  years  to  be ! 
Empires  and  cities  in  oblivion  lie. 
Grandeur  may  vanish, conquest  be  forgot;— 
To  leave  on  earth  renown  that  cannot  die. 
Of  high-soul'd  genius  is  th'  unrivall'd  lot. 
Honour  to  thee,  O  Athens!  thou  hast  shown 
What  mortals  may  attain,   and  seized  the  palm 
alone. 

LXXXVI. 

Oh!  live  there  those  who  view  with  scornful  eyes 
All  that  attests  the  brightness  of  thy  prime  ! 
Yes;  they  who  dwell  beneath  thy  lovely  skies, 
And  breathe  th'  inspiring  ether  of  thy  clime ! 
Their  path  is  o'er  the  mightiest  of  the  dead, 
Their  homes  are  'midst  the  works  of  noblest  arts; 
Yet  all  around  their  gaze,  beneath  their  tread, 
Not  one  proud  thrill  of  loftier  thought  imparts. 
Such  are  the  conquerors  of  Minerva's  land. 
Where  genius  first  reveal'd  the  triumphs  of  his 
hand! 

LXXXVII. 

For  them  in  vain  the  glowing  light  may  smile 
O'er  the    pale   marble,  colouring's  warmth   to 

shed, 

And  in  chaste  beauty  many  a  sculptured  pile 
Still  o'er  the  dust  of  heroes  lift  its  head. 
No  patriot  feeling  binds  them  to  the  soil, 
Whose   tombs  and  shrines  their  fathers  have 

not  rear'd, 

Their  glance  is  cold  indifference,  and  their  toil 
But.  to  destroy  what  ages  have  revered, 
As  if  exulting  sternly  to  erase 
Whate'er  might  prove  that  land  had  nursed  a  no- 
bler race. 

LXXXVHI. 

And  who  may  grieve  that,  rescued  from  their 

hands. 

Spoilers  of  excellence  and  foes  to  art. 
Thy  relics,  Athens !  borne  to  other  lands, 
Claim  homage  still  to  thee  from  every  heart  ? 
Though  now  no  more  th'  exploring  stranger's 

sight, 

Fix'd  in  deep  reverence  on  Minerva's  fane, 
Shall  hail,  beneath  their  native  heaven  of  light, 
All  that  remain'd  of  forms  adored  in  vain  ; 
A  few  short  years — and,  vanivh'd  from  the  scene, 
I'o  blend  with  classic  dust  their  proudest  lot  had 

been. 

LXXXIX. 

Fair  Parthenon  !  yet  still  must  fancy  weep 
For  thee,  thou  work  of  nobler  spirits  flown. 
Bright,  as  of  old.  the  sunbeams  o'er  thee  sleep 
In  all  their  beauty  still— and  thine  is  gone  ! 
Empires  have  sunk  since  thou  wert  first  revered 
And  varying  rites  have  sanctified  thy  shrine. 
The  dust  is  round  thee  of  the  race  that  rear'd 
Thy  walls;  and  thou— their  fate  must  soon  be 

thine! 

But  when  shall  earth  again  exult  to  see 
Visions  divine  like  theirs  renew'd  in  aught  like 

thee? 

XC. 

I,one  are  thy  pillars  now— each  passing  pale 
Sighs  o'er  them  as  a  spirit's  voice,  which  moan'd 
That  loneliness,  and  told  the  plaintive  tale 
Of  the  bright  synod  once  above  them  throned. 
Mourn,  graceful  ruin  !  on  thy  sacred  hill. 
Thy  gods,  thy  rites,  a  kindred  fate  hath  shared: 


82 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Vet  ait  tnou  honnur'd  in  each  fragment  still, 
That  wasting  years  and  barbarous  hands  had 

spared  ; 

Each  hallow'd  stone,  from  rapine's  fury  borne, 
Shall  wake  bright  dreams  of  thee  in  ages  yet  un- 
born. 

XCI. 

Yes;  in  those  fragments,  though  by  time  defaced, 
And  rude  insensate  conquerors,  yet  remains 
All  that  may  charrri  th'  enlighten'd  eye  of  taste, 
On  shores  \vr.nre  still  inspiring  freedom  reigns. 
As  vital  fragrance  breathes  from  every  part 
Of  the  crush'd  myrtle,  or  the  bruised  rose, 
E'en  thus  th'  essential  energy  of  art. 
There  in  each  wreck  imperishably  glows!  (38) 
The  soul  of  Athens  lives  in  every  line, 
Pervading  brightly  still  the  ruins  of  her  shrine. 

XCII. 

Mark — on  the  storied  frieze  the  graceful  train, 

The  h<>ly  festival's  triumphal  throng, 

I -i  fair  proceswon,  to  Minerva's  fane, 

With  many  a  sacred  symbol  move  along. 

There  every  shade  of  bright  existence  trace, 

The  tire  of  youth,  the  dignity  of  age ; 

The  matron's  calm  austerity  of  grace, 

The  ardent  warrior,  the  benignant  sage; 

The  nymph's  light  symmetry,  the  chiefs  proud 

mien. 
Each  ray  of  beauty  caught  and  mingled  in  the 

scene. 

XCIII.  , 

Art  unobtrusive  there  ennobles  form,  (39) 
Each  pure,  chaste  outline  exquisitely  flows; 
There  e'en    the    steed,   with   bold    expression 

warm,  (40) 

Is  clothed  with  majesty,  with  being  glows. 
One  mighty  mind  hath  harmonized  the  whole; 
Those  varied  groups  the  same  bright   impress 

bear  ; 

One  beam  and  essence  of  exalting  soul 
Lives  in  the  grand,  the  delicate,  the  fair; 
And  well  that  pageant  of  the  glorious  dead 
Blends  us  with  nobler  days,  and  loftier  spirits  fled. 

XCIV. 

O  conquering  Genius!  that  couldst  thus  detain 
The  subtle  graces,  fading  as  they  rise, 
Eternalize  expression's  fleeting  reign. 
Arrest  warm  life  in  all  its  energies. 
And  fix  them  on  the  stone— thy  glorious  lot 
Might  wake  ambition's  envy,  and  create 
Powers  half  divine  :  while  nations  are  forgot, 
A  thought,   a  dream  of  thine  hath  .vanquish'd 

fa'te ! 

And  when  thy  hand  first  gave  its  wonders  birth, 
The  realms  that  hail  them  now  scarce  claim'd  a 

name  on  earth. 

XCV. 

Wert  thou  some  spirit  of  a  purer  sphere 

But  once  beheld,  and  never  to  return? 

No— we  may  hail  again  thy  bright  career, 

Again  on  earth  a  kindred  fire  shall  burn  ! 

Though  ihy  last  relics,  e'en  in  ruin,  bear 

A  stamp  of   heaven,  that  ne'er  hath  been  re- 

new'd —  . 

A  light  inherent— let  not  man  despair: 
Still  be  hope  ardent,  patience  unsubdued; 
For  still  is  nature  fair,  and  thought  divine, 
&nd   art  hath  won  a  world  in  models  pure  as 
thine.  (41) 

XCVI. 

Gaze  on  yon  forms,  corroded  and  defaced — 
Yet  there  the  germ  of  future  glory  lies! 
Their  virtual  grandeur  could  iiot  be  erased, 
It  clothes  them  still,  though  veil'd  from  common 

*-yes. 

They  once  were  gods  and  heroes  (4-2)— and  beheld 
An  the  blest  guardians  of  their  native  scene; 


And  hearts  of  warriors,  sages,  bards,  have  swell'd 
With  awe  that  own'd  their  sov'reignty  of  mien. 
— Ages  have  vanish'd  since  those  hearts  were 

cold. 
And  still  those  shatter'd  forms  retain  their  godlike 

mould. 

XCVH. 

'Midst  their  origin  kindred,  from  their  marble 
throne, 

They  have  look'd  down  on  thousand  storms  of 
time  ; 

Surviving  power  and  fame  and  freedom  flown. 

They  still  remain'd,  still  tranquilly  sublime  ! 

Till  mortal  hands  the  heavenly  conclave  marr'd. 

Th'  Olympian  groups  have  sunk,  and  are  forgot ; 

Not  e'en  their  dust  could  weeping  Athens  guard: 

—But  these  were  destined  to  a  nobler  lot ! 

And  they  have  borne,  to  light  another  land, 
The  qurnchless  ray  that  soon  shall  gloriously  ex- 
pand. 

XCVIII. 

Phi:!ias !  supreme  in  thought !  what  hand  but 

thiiie, 

In  human  works  thus  blending  earth  and  heaven. 
O'er  Nature's  truth  hath  shed  that  grace  divine 
To  mortal  form  immortal  grandeur  given  ? 
Wrliat  soul  Imt  thine,  infusing  all  its  power, 
In  these  last  monuments  of  matchless  days, 
Could  from  their  r  lins  bid  young  Genius  tower. 
And  Hope  aspire  to  more  exalted  praise  ? 
And  guide  deep  thought  to  that  secluded  heiglit. 
Where  excellence  is  throned,  in  purity  of  light. 

XCIX. 

And  who  can  tell  how  pure,  how  bright  a  flame 
Caught  from  these  models,  may  illume  the  west  ? 
What  British  Ancelo  may  rise  to  fame,(43) 
On  the  free  isle  what  beams  of  art  may  rest  ? 
Deem  not,  O  England  !  that  by  climes  confi.'.ud, 
Genius  and  taste  diffuse  a  partial  rav:(44l 
Deem  not  the  eternal  energies  of  mind 
Sway'd  by  that  sun  whose  doom  is  but  decay  ! 
Shall  thought  be  foster'd  but  by  skies  serene  . 
No !  thou  hast  power  to  be  what  Athens  e'er  iiatb 
been. 

C. 

But  thine  are  treasures  oft  unprized,  unknown, 
And  cold  neglect  hath  blighted  many  a  mind, 
O'er  whose  young  ardours,  had  thy  smile  but 

shone, 

Their  snaring  flight  had  left  a  world  behind ! 
And  many  a   gifted   hand,  that  might  have 

wrought 

To  Grecian  excellence  the  breathing  stone, 
Or  each  pure  grace  of  Raphael's  pencil  caught 
Leaving  no  record  of  its  power,  is  gone! 
While  thou  hast  fondly  sought,  on  distant  coan, 
Gems  tar  less  rich  than  those,  thus  precious,  an  I 

thus  lost. 

CI. 

Yet  rise,  O  Land  in  all  but  Art  alone. 
Bid  the  sole  wreath  that  is  not  thine  be  won  ! 
Fame  dwells  around  thee— Genius  is  thine  own  ; 
Call  his  rich  blooms  to  life — be  Thou  their  Sun  ! 
So  should  dark  ages  o'er  thy  glory  sweep, 
Should  thine  e'er  be  as  now  are  Grecian  plains, 
Nations  unborn  shall  track  thine  own  blue  deep, 
To  hail  thy  shore,  to  worship  thy  remain?  ; 
Thy  mighty  monuments  with  reverence  trace. 
And  cry,  •'  This  ancient  soil  hath  nursed  a  gloricui 
race  I" 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


83 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1. 

found  Doric  Pmstvm'i  solitary  /ana. 

"  The  Piatan  roie,  from  its  peculiar  fragrance  and  the  lingularity 
».'  blowing  twice  a  year,  is  often  mentioned  by  the  classic  ports. 
The  wild  rose,  which  now  ihoots  up  among  ihe  ruins,  is  of  the 
small  single  damask  kind,  with  a  very  high  perfume;  as  a  farmer 
assured  me  on  the  spot,  it  flowers  both  in  spring  and  autumn."— 
Sannburne't  Travels  in  »/.«  TwoSiciliet. 

NOTE  2. 

Swelled  e'er  that  tide— the  ion*  of  battle  sleep. 

In  the  naval  engagements  of  the  Greeks,  "  it  was  usual  for  the 

soldiers  before  the  fight  to  sing  a  paean,  or  hymn,  to  Mare,  and  after 

the  fight  anoiher  lo  Apollo."— See  Palter'*  Antiquities  of  Greece,  vol. 

ii,  p.  155. 

NOTE  3. 

Her  own  bright  East,  thy  son,  Morta  !  fliet. 
The  emigration  of  the  nalivea  of  the  Morea  to  different  parts  of 
Alia  is  thus  mentioned  by  Chateaubriand  in  his  ••  Itineraire  de  Paris 
la  Jerusalem" — "  Parvenu  au  dernier  degre  <iu  malheur,  le  Moraite 
I'ararche  de  son  pays,  el  va  chercher  en  Asic  uu  sort  moius  rignuieux. 
Vain  espoir  I  il  retrouve  des  cadis  et  des  pachas  jusques  dans  lei  sa- 
bles de  Jourdain  et  dans  les  deserts  de  Palmy  re." 

NOTE  4. 

Wilt  thou  receive  the  wanderer  to  thine  arms. 
ID  the  same  work,  Chateaubriand  also  relate*  his  having  met  with 
several  Greek  emigrants  who  bad  established  theinselvet  in  the 
woods  of  Florida. 

NOTE  5. 

And  i*la  of  flowers,  bright-floating  o'er  the  tide. 

"  La  grace  at  toujours  unie  a  la  magnificence  dans  lei  scenet  de 
la  nature  ;  et  tandis  que  le  courant  dn  milieu  enframe  vers  la 
let  cadavres  des  pins  et  des  chent-s,  on  voit  sur  les  deux  courani 
lateraux  remonter  le  long  des  rivages  des  iles  flottantes  de  Pillia  et 
de  Nenuphar,  dont  les  roses  jauues  s'elevent  comme  de  petits  papil- 
lont."— Dexriplion  of  the  bank*  of  the  Mississippi,  Chateau. 
briand's  "Jltala." 

NOTE  6. 
Wild,  at  when  sung  by  bardi  of  elder  time. 

"  Looking  generally  at  the  narrowness  and  abruptness  of  thii 
mountain-channel  (Tempe)  and  contrasting  it  with  Ihe  course  of  the 
Peneus.  through  the  p'ains  of  The-sa'y.  'he  imagination  instant! 
recurs  to  the  tradition  that  these  plains  were  once  covered  wit 
water  for  which  some  convulsion  ol  nature  had  subsequently  opened 
this  narrow  passage.  The  term  uait,  m  our  language,  is  usually 
employed  lo  describe  scenery  in  which  the  piedouiiiiaut  features  are 
breadth,  beauty,  and  repute.  The  reader  has  already  perceived  that 
the  term  is  wholly  inajpliiable  to  the  scenery  at  this  spot,  and  that 

1  he  real  tnat..cier  ol  Tempe,  though  it  |,ernaps  be  le  s  beautiful, 
yet  possesses  more  nl  magnificence  than  is  implied  in  the  epithet 
giveu  lo  il. To  those  who  have  visited  St.  Vincent's  nicks,  be- 
low Bristol,  I  cannot  convey  a  more  sufficient  idea  nf  Tempe,  than 
by  .vying  that  its  scenery  resembles,  though  on  a  much  larger  scale, 
that  of  the  former  place.'  The  Peneus  indeed,  as  it  flows  through  the 
valley,  ii  not  greatly  wider  than  Ihe  Avon;  and  the  cbannel  be- 
tween Ihe  chdsls  equally  contracted  in  its  .:  intensions ;  but  these 
clitfs  themselves  are  much  loftier  and  more  precipitous,  and  project 
their  vast  masses  of  rock  with  still  more  exiraoidmary  abruptuen 
over  the  hollow  beneath."—  Holland'*  Travel*  in  Albania,  S/c. 


NOTE  7. 

Years,  that  have  changed  ihy  rirer'j  classic  name. 
The  modem  name  of  the  Peneus  is  bal>  mpria. 

NOTE  8. 

Where  the  rich  arbute't  coral  kernel  glmc. 

"Towards  the  lower  part  of  Tempe,  these  clitfs  are  peaked  in  a 
»ery  singular  manner,  and  form  projec'ing  angles  on  Ihe  vast  per- 
pendicular faces  of  the  rock  which  they  present  towards  the  chasm  ; 
where  the  surface  renders  it  possible,  the  summits  and  ledgel 
of  the  rocks  are  for  the  most  part  covered  with  small  wood, 
chiefly  oak,  with  the  arbutus  and  other  shrubs.  On  the  banks  of  the 
river,  wterever  there  is  a  small  interval  between  the  water  and  the 
clifl's,  it  is  covered  by  the  rich  and  widely  spreading  foliage  of  the 
plane,  thi  oak,  and  other  forest  trees,  which  in  these  situations  have 
attained  a  remarkable  size,  and  in  various  plactsex'end  their  shadow 

far  over  the  channel  of  the  stream." "'I  he  rocks  on  each  side 

the  vale  uf  Tempe  are  evidently  the  same  ;  «  hat  may  be  called,  I 
believe,  a  coarse  bluish  gray  marble,  with  veins  and  portions  <>f  the 
rock,  in  which  the  marble  is  of  liner  quality."—  Holland's  Travel! 
in  Albania,  Iff. 

NOTE  9. 

When  Greece  her  council!  held,  her  Pythian  victor*  crowned. 
The  Amphictyonic  council  was  convened  in  spring  and  autumn 
Delphi  or  Thermopylae,  and  presided  at  the  Pythian  games  whifb 
were  celebrated  at  Delphi  every  fifth  year. 

NOTE  10. 

Blown  the  wild  laurels  o'er  the  warlike  dead. 
"  This  spot  (the  field  of  Mantineai  on  which  so  many  brave  men 
were  laid  to  rest,  is  now  covered  with  rosemary  and  laureli.'  — 
i  He'*  Travel*  in  the  Morca. 


Where  the  dark  upas  lamis  the  gale  around. 
For  the  accounts  of  the  upas  or  poison-tree  of  Java,  now  generally 
believed  to  be  fabulous,  or  greatly  exaggerated,  see  the  notes  to  Dar- 
win's Botanic  Garden. 

NOTE  12. 

ttl  sculptured  liana,  richly  wrought  arcades. 
"  The  court  most  to  be  admired  of  the  Alhambra  is  that  called  tit 
court  of  the  Lions;  il  is  ornamented  with  sixty  elegant  pillars  of  an 
architecture  which  bears  not  the  least  resemblance  lo  any  of  the 
known  orders,  and  might  be  called  Ihe  Arabian  order.  But  its  principa 
ornament,  and  that  from  which  it  took  its  name,  is  an  alabaster  cup, 
six  feet  in  diameter,  supported  by  twelve  lions,  which  :s  said  U 
have  been  made  in  imitation  of  the  Brazen  Sea  of  Sctlomon'l  temple.  *• 
—tourguannc't  Travel!  m  Spain. 

NOTE  13. 

Bright  at  that  Pleiad  sphered  in  Mecca'*  fane. 

"Sept  des  plus  fameux  panui  les  ancient  poetes  Arabiques,  SOD' 

designes  par  les  ecrivains  orieutaux  sous  le  nom  de  Pleuide  AraLiqut, 

et  leurs  ouvrages  etaient  suspendus  autour  de  la  Caaba  ou  Mosqur 

de  la  Mecque."—  Samondi.  iitterature  du  Midi. 

NOTE  14. 

And  thou,  O  last  and  nollat  Conxtantme  ! 
"  The  distress  and  fall  of  the  last  Constantino  are  more  glorious  thai 
the  long  prosperity  of  the  Byzantine  Caesars."—  GiWxm'»  Decltn' 
and  Fall,  tfc.  vol.  xii.  p.  226. 

NOTE  15 

The  doling  night  of  that  imperial  race  ! 

See  the  description  of  the  night  previous  to  the  taking  of  Constan- 
tinople by  Mahomet  IL—  Qitibon,  vol.  xii.  p.  225. 

NOTE  16. 

And  the  Seven  Tinner*  are  icaled,  and  all  it  won  and  lost. 
"This  building  (the  Castle  of  the  Seven  Towers)  ii  mentioned  at 
early  as  the  sixth  century  of  the  Christian  era,  as  a  spot  which  con- 
tributed to  the  defence  of  Constantinople,  and  it  was  the  principal 
bulwark  of  the  town  on  the  coast  of  the  Propontis,  in  the  last  periods 
of  the  empire."  —  Puuipuville't  Travels  in  the  Morta, 

NOTE  17. 

Preterved  inviolate  their  awful  fane 

See  the  account  from  Herodotus  of  the  supernatural  defence  of 
Delphi.—  MitforoT*  Greece,  vol.  i.  p.  396,  7. 

NOTE  18. 

Who  from  the  dead  at  Marathon  arose. 

"In  succeeding  ages  the  Athenians  honoured  Theseus  as  a  demi-god, 
induced  lo  it  as  well  by  other  reasons,  as  because,  when  they  were 
fighting  the  Medes  at  Marathon,  a  considerable  part  of  the  army 
thought  they  law  the  apparition  of  Theseus  completely  armed,  and 
bearing  down  before  them  upon  the  Barbarians.  "—  Langhomt't 
Plutarch,  Life  of  Theteut. 

NOTE  19. 

Or  they  whole  form*,  to  Alaric'i  awestruck  eye. 
"From  Thermopyle  to  Sparta,  the  leader  of  the  Goths  (Alaric) 
pursued  his  victorious  march  without  encountering  any  mortal  an- 
tagonist :  but  one  of  the  advocates  of  expiring  paganism  has  confi- 
dently asserted,  that  the  walls  of  Athens  were  guarded  by  thegoddest 
Minerva,  with  ber  formidable  segis,  and  by  the  angry  phantom  of 
Achilles,  and  that  the  conqueror  was  dismayed  by  the  pretence  rf  the 
hostile  deities  of  Greece."—  Gibbon'*  Decline  and  Fall,  tec.  vol.  v. 
p.  183.  . 

NOTE  20. 

Ye  tlept,  oh  heroes  '.  chief  one*  of  the  earth. 
"  Even  all  the  chief  one*  of  the  earth."—  haiah,  14th  chapter. 

NOTE  21. 

Perufted  the  conquering  weapons  of  your  war. 
"  How  are  the  mighty  fallen,  and  the  weapons  of  war  perished  !* 
Samuel,  2d  book,  1st  chap. 

NOTE  22. 

(fer  Suit's  frowning  rocki  the  pauied  awhile. 
For  several  interesting  particulars  relative  to  the  Suliote  warfare 
with  Ali  Pasha,  see  Holland's  Travels  in  Albania. 


NOTE  24. 

To  lend  their  fall  a  mournful  majeity. 

The  ruins  of  Sparta,  near  the  modern  town  of  Mistra,  are  -nrj 
inconsiderable,  and  only  sufficient  to  mark  the  site  of  the  ancient 
city.  The  scenery  around  them  is  described  by  travellers  u  very 
striking. 


84 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


NOTE  25. 

How  died  the  I/rave,  obedient  to  thy  lava. 

The  inscription  composed  by  Simonidet  for  the  Spartan  monu- 

ment in  the  pass  of  Thermopylae  has  been  thus  translated  —  "  Stran- 

ger, go  tell  the  Lacedemonians  that  we  have  obeyed  their  laws,  and 

(bat  we  lie  here." 

NOTE  26. 

There  the  rose-laurels  still  in  beauty  wave. 
"In  the  Eurotai  I  observed  abundance  of  those  famous  reeds 
which  were  known  in  the  earliest  ages,  and  all  the  rivers  and  marshes 
of  Greece  are  replete  with  rose-laurels,  while  Ibe  springs  and  rivu- 
lets are  covered  with  lilies,  tuberoses,  hyacinths,  and  narcissus  ori- 
ental is."—  Pouqueeille'i  Travels  in  the  Murea. 

NOTE  27. 
The  supplianft  hand  ill  holy  branches  bore, 


NOTE  28. 

fit  fruitful  groaet  arise,  revered  and  hallowed  still. 
The  olive,  according  to  Fouqueville,  is  still  regarded  with  venera- 
tion by  the  people  of  the  Morea. 

NOTE  29. 

Quenched  it  the  torch  of  Cera—all  around. 
It  was  customary  at  Eleusis  on  the  fifth  day  of  the  festival,  for 
men  and  women  to  run  about  with  torches  in  their  hands,  and  also 
to  dedicate  torches  to  Ceres,  and  to  contend  who  should  present  the 
largest.  This  was  done  in  memory  of  the  journey  of  Ceres  in  search 
of  Proserpine,  during  which  she  waslighted  l.y  a  torch  kindled  mthe 
flames  ot  Etna.—  Potter's  Antiifuities  of  Greece,  vol.  i.  p.  392. 

NOTE  30. 

Fount  of  Oblivion  I  in  thy  giuhing  leave. 

The  Fountains  of  Oblivion  and  Memory,  with  the  Hercynian 

fountain,  are  still  to  be  seen  amongst  the  rocks  near  Livadia,  though 

the  situation  of  the  cave  of  Trophonius  in  their  vicinity  'cannot  b« 

exactly  ascertained—  See  Holland's  Travels. 

NOTE  31. 

fair  Elis,  o'er  thy  consecrated  vau*, 

Elis  was  anciently  a  sacred  territory,  its  inhabitants  being  con- 
sidered as  consecrated  to  the  service  of  Jupiter.  All  armies  march- 
ing through  it  delivered  up  their  weapons,  and  received  them  again 
when  thev  had  passed  its  boundary. 

NOTE  33. 

And  mile  the  longest  in  ill  lingering  ray. 

"  We  are  assured  by  Thucydides  that  Attica  was  the  province  of 

Greece  in  which  population  first  became  settled,  and  where  the  ear 

lint  progress  was  made  toward  civilization."—  Mitford's  Greece,  vo! 

i.  p.  35. 

NOTE  33. 

Raised  by  the  magic  of  Margana's  wand. 

Fata  Morgana.  This  remarkable  aerial  phenomenon,  which  it 
thought  by  the  lower  orders  of  Sicilians  to  be  the  work  of  a  fairy, 
is  thus  described  by  father  Angelucci,  whose  account  is  quoted  by 
Swinburne. 

"  On  the  15th  August,  1643,  I  was  surprised,  as  I  stood  at  my 
window,  with  a  most  wonderful  spectacle  :  the  sea  that  washes  the 
Sicilian  shore  swelled,  and  became,  for  ten  miles  in  length,  like  a 
chain  of  dark  mountains,  while  the  waters  near  our  Calabrian  coast 
grew  quite  smooth,  and  in  an  instant  appeared  like  one  clear  lioliihed 
mirror.  On  this  glass  was  depicted,  in  chiaro  scuro.  a  string  of  several 
thousands  of  pilasters  all  equal  in  height,  distance,  and  degrees  of 
light  and  shade.  In  a  moment  they  bent  into  arcades,  like  Roman 
aqueducts.  A  long  cornice  was  next  formed  at  the  top,  an  j  above 
it  rose  innumerable  castles,  all  perfectly  alike  ;  these  again  changed 
into  tewers,  which  were  shortly  after  lost  in  colonnades,  then  win 
dows.  and  at  last  ended  in  pines,  cypresses  and  other  trees."—  Surin- 
tmnu's  Travels  in  the  Twa  Sicilies. 

NOTE  34. 

Holy  tilt  amaranth  strewed  upon  their  grove. 

All  sorts  of  purple  and  white  flowers  were  supposed  by  the  Greeks 

to  be  acceptable  to  the  dead,  and  used  in  adorning  tombs;  as  ama- 

ranth, with  which  theThessalians  decorated  the  tomb  of  Achilles.— 

Putter's  Antiquities  of  Greece,  vol.  li.  p.  232. 

NOTE  35. 

Hark  I  Periclu  records  their  honoured  names. 

Pericles,  on  his  return  to  Athens  after  the  reduction  of  Samoa, 

celebrated  in  a  splendid  manner  the  obsequies  of  his  countrymen  wbc 

fell  in  that  war.  and  pronounced,  himself,  the  funeral  oration  usual 

on  such  occasions.    This  gained  him  great  applause  ;  and  when  h« 

and  presented  him  with  crowns  and  chaplets,  like  •  champion  jttst 
returned  victorious  from  the  lists,—  £ant;Aomt'j  Plutarch,  lift  o/ 
Ptncla 


NOTE  36. 

Minr.roa's  veil  is  rent— her  image  gone. 

The  peplus,  which  is  supposed  to  have  beea  suspended  as  an  awn. 

g  over  the  statue  of  Minerva,  in  the  Parthenon,  was  a  principal  or 

iment  of  the  Fana'henaic  festival  ;  it  was  embroidered  with  variou 

iloura.  representing  the  battle  of  the  Gods  and  Titans,  and  the  n 

ploits  of  Athenian  heroes.     When  the  festival  was  celebrated,  In* 

peplus  was  brought  from  the  Acropolis,  and  suspended  as  a  sail  to  Uu 

vessel,  which  on  that  day  was  conducted  through  the  Ceramicus  and 

principal  streets  of  Athens,  till  it  had  made  the  circuit  of  the  Aero 

polis.    The  peplus  was  then  carried  to  the  Parthenon,  and  conse* 

crated  to  Minerva.— See  Chandler's  Travels,  Stewart's  Athens,  *e. 

NOTE  37. 

Though  with  rich  gold  and  massy  sculpture  graced. 
The  gilding  amidst  the  ruins  of  Penepolis  is  still,  according  to 
Winckelmann,  in  high  preservation. 

NOTE  38.  | 

Then  m  each  wreck  impcrishably  gloat. 
"  In  the  most  broken  fragment  the  same  great  principle  of  life  ca, 
be  proved  to  exist,  as  in  the  most  perfect  figure,"  is  one  of  the  ob- 
servations of  Mr.  Haydon  on  the  Elgin  Marbles. 

NOTE  39. 

Art  unobtrusive  then  ennobles  form. 

«  Erery  thing  here  breathes  life,  with  a  veracity,  with  an  exquisite 
knowledge  of  art,  but  wiihout  the  least  ostentation  or  parade  of  it, 
which  is  concealed  by  consummate  and  masterly  skill."—  Cmnoaa's 
Letter  to  the  Earl  of  Elgin. 

NOTE  40. 

There  e'en  the  steed  with  bold  expression  worm. 
Dr.  West,  after  expressing  his  admiration  of  the  horse's  head  in 
l/>rd  Elgin's  collection  of  Athenian  sculpture,  thus  proceeds :  "We 
feel  the  same  when  we  view  the  young  equestrian  Athenians,  and 
in  observing  them  we  are  insensibly  carried  on  with  the  impression, 
that  they  and  their  horses  actually  existed,  as  we  see  them,  at  the 
ins'anl  when  they  were  converted  into  marble."—  tVal'l  Second 
Letter  to  Lord  Elgin. 

NOTE  41. 

And  art  hath  toon  a  world  in  modus  pure  as  thine. 
Mr.  Flaxman  thinks  that  sculpture  has  very  greatly  improved 
within  these  last  twenty  years,  and  that  his  opinion  is  not  singulai 
because  works  of  such  prime  importance  as  the  Elgin  marbles  could 
not  remain  in  any  country  without  a  consequent  improvement  of  th« 
public  taste,  and  the  talents  of  the  artist^— See  the  Evidence  given 
in  reply  to  interrogatories  from  the  Committee  on  the  Elgin 
Marbles. 

NOTE  42. 

They  once  were  gods  and  t.erots — and  beheld, 

The  Theseus  and  Ilissus,  which  are  considered  by  Sir  T.  Law 

rence,  Mr.  Westmacott,  and  other  distingnished  artists,  to  be  of  a 

higher  class  than  the  Apo'lo  Belvidere;  "because  there  is  in  them 

•ion  of  the  effect  of  action  upon  the  human  frame,  than  there  is  >» 
the  Apollo,  or  any  of  the  other  more  celebrated  statue*."— See  th« 
Evidence,  ire. 

NOTE  43. 

What  British  Angela  may  rise  to  fame. 

"  Let  us  suppose  a  young  man  at  this  time  in  London;  endowed 
with  powers  such  as  enabled  Michael  Angelo  to  advance  the  arts, 
at  he  did,  by  the  aid  of  one  mutilated  specimen  of  Grecian  excel- 
lence in  sculpture ;  to  what  an  eminence  might  not  such  a  geniu* 
carry  art,  by  (he  opportunity  of  studying  those  sculptures  iu  the  ag- 
gregate, which  adorned  the  temple  of  Minerva  at  Athens  ?"—  Wt*Vt 
Second  Letter  to  Lord  Elgin. 

NOTE  44. 

Ocnivs  and  taste  dijfust  a  partial  ray. 

In  allusion  to  the  theories  of  Du  Bos,  Winckelmann,  Montesquieu, 
fee.  with  regard  to  the  inherent  obstacles  in  the  climate  of  England 
to  the  progress  of  genius  and  the  arta,— Set  Heart' t  Epochs  of  t!u 
jilti,  page  84,  5. 


HEMANS    POETICAL  WORKS. 


85 


DARTMOOR 


A   PRIZE   POEM. 


Come  bright  Improvement,  on  the  car  of  Tims, 
And  rule  the  spacious  world  from  clime  to  clime! 
Thy  handmaid,  Art,  shall  every  wild  eiplore, 
Trace  every  wave  and  cultuK  every  shore. 

Campbell 


May  ne'er 
fail  of  English  hearts, 


That  true  «i 

That  can  perceive,  not  lets  than  he 

Our  ancestors  did  feelingly  percem 

_^— — — — the  char; 

Of  pious  sentiment,  diffused  afar, 
And  human  charity,  and  social  love 


AMIOST  the  peopled  and  the  regal  Isle, 
Whose  vales,  rejoicing  in  their  beauty,  smile; 
Whose  cities,  fearless  of  the  spoiler,  tower. 
And  send  on  every  breeze  a  voice  of  power; 
Hath  Desolation  rear'd  herself  a  throne, 
And  mark'd  a  pathless  region  for  her  own  ? 
Yes  !  though  thy  turf  no  stain  of  carnage  wore, 
When  bled  the  noble  hearts  of  many  a  shore, 
Though  not  a  hostile  step  thy  heath-flowers  bent, 
When  empires  totter'd,  and  the  earth  was  rent; 
Yet  lone,  as  if  some  tranipler  of  mankind 
Had  slill'd  life's  busy  murmurs  on  the  wind. 
And,  flush'd  with  power,  in  daring  Pride's  excess, 
Stamp'd  on  thy  soil  the  curse  of  barrenness; 
For  thee  in  vain  descend  the  dews  of  heaven, 
In  vain  the  sunbeam  and  the  shower  are  given  ; 
Wild  Dartmoor  I  thou  that,  'midst  thy  mountain! 

rude, 

Hast  robed  thyself  with  haughty  solitude, 
As  a  dark  cloud  on  Summer's  clear-blue  sky, 
A  mourner,  circled  with  festivity  ! 
For  all  beyond  is  life!— the  rolling  sea. 
The  rush,  the  swell,  whose  echoes  reach  not  thee. 
Yet  who  shall  find  a  scene  so  wilt!  and  bare, 
But  man  h»s  left  his  lingering  traces  there? 
K'en  on  mysterious  Afric's  boundless  plains, 
Where  noon  with  attributes  of  midnight  reigns, 
In  gloom  and  silence,  fearfully  profound, 
As  of  a  wotld  i] n waked  to  soul  or  sound  ; 
Though  the  sad  wanderer  of  the  burning  rone 
Feels,  as  amidst  infinity,  alone, 
And  naught  of  life  be  near ;  his  camel's  tread 
Is  o'er  the  prostrate  cities  of  the  tiead  ! 
Some  column,  rear'd  by  long-forgotten  hands, 
Just  lifts  its  head  above  the  billowy  sands — 
Some  mouldering  shrinestill  consecrates  the  scene, 
And  tells  that  Glory's  footstep  there  hath  been. 
There  hath  the  spirit  of  the  mighty  pass'd. 
Not  without  record  ;  though  the  desert-blast, 
Borne  on  the  wings  of  Time,  hath  swept  away 
The  proud  creations,  rear'd  to  brave  decay. 
Rut  thou,  lone  region  1  whose  unnoticed  name 
No  lofty  deeds  have  mingled  with  their  fame, 
Who  shall  unfol'l  thine  annals  ?    Who  shall  tell 
If  on  thy  soil  the  sons  of  heroes  fell, 
In  those  far  aces,  which  have  left  no  trace, 
No  sunbeam  on  the  pathway  of  their  race  ? 
Though,  haply,  in  the  unrecorded  days 
Of  kings  and  chiefs,  who  pass'd   without  their 

praise, 

Thou  might'st  have  rear'd  the  valiant  and  the  free, 
In  history's  page  there  is  no  tale  of  thee. — 

Vet  hast  thou  thy  memorials.    On  the  wild 
Still  rise  the  cairns  of  yore,  all  rudely  piled.  (1) 
But  hallow'd,  by  that  instinct,  which  reveres 
Things  fraught  with  characters  of  elder  years. 
And  such  are  these.     Long  centuries  nre  flown, 
Umv'd  many  a  crest,  andshatter'd  many  a  throne. 


Mingling  the  urn,  the  trophy,  and  the  bust, 
With  that  they  hide— their  shrined  and  treasured 

dust ; 

Men  traverse  Alps  and  Oceans,  to  behold 
Earth's  glorious  works  fast  mingling  with   her 

mould  ; 

But  still  these  nameless  chronicles  of  death, 
'Midst  the  deep  silence  of  the  unpeopled  heath. 
Stand  in  primeval  artlessness.  and  wear 
The  same  sepulchral  mien,  and  almost  share 
Th'  eternity  of  nature,  with  the  forms 
Of  the  crown'd  hills  beyond,  the  dwellings  of  the 

storms. 

Yet,  what  avails  it,  if  each  moss  grown  heap 
Still  on  the  waste  its  lonely  vigils  keep, 
Guarding  the  dust  which  slumbers  well  beneath 
(Nor  needs  such  care)  from   each   cold  season's 

breath  ? 

Where  is  the  voice  to  tell  their  tale  who  rest, 
Thus  rudely  pillow'd,  on  the  desert's  breast  ? 
Doth  the  sword  sleep  beside  them?  Hath  there  been 
A  sound  of  battle  'midst  the  silent  scene, 
Where  now  the  flocks  repose  ?  did  the  scythed  car 
Here  reap  its  harvest  in  the  ranks  of  war? 
And  rise  these  piles  in  memory  of  the  slain. 
And  the  red  combat  of  the  mountain-plain  ? 

It  may  he  thus:  the  vestiges  of  strife. 
Around  yet  lingering,  mark  the  steps  of  life 
And  the  rude  arrow's  barb  remains  to  tell  (2) 
How  by  its  stroke  perchance  the  mighty  fell 
To  be  forgotten.    Vain  the  warrior's  pride, 
The  chieftain's  power  —  they  had   no  bard,  and 

died.  (3) 

But  ot"her  scenes,  from  their  untroubled  sphere. 
The  eternal  stars  of  night  have  witness'd  here. 
There  stands  an  altar  of  unsculptured  stone,  (4) 
Far  on  the  moor,  a  thine  of  ages  gone, 
Propp'd  on  its  granite  pillars,  whence  the  rains, 
And  pure  bright  dews,  have  laved  the  crimson 

stains 

Left  by  dark  rites  of  blood :  for  here,  of  yore. 
When  the  bleak  waste  a  robe  of  forest  wore. 
And  many  a  crested  oak,  which  now  lies  low, 
Waved  its  wild  wreath  of  sacred  misletoe ; 
Here,  at  dead  midnight,  through  the  haunted  shade. 
On  Druid-harps  the  quivering  moon-beam  play'd, 
And  spells  were  breathed,  thatfill'd  the  deepening 

gloom 

With  the  pale,  shadowy  people  of  the  tomb. 
Or,  haply,  torches  waving  through  the  night, 
Bade  the  red  cairn-fires  blaze  from  every  height,  (5^ 
Like  battle-signals,  whose  unearthly  gleams 
Threw  o'er  the  desert's  hundred  hills  and  streams, 
A  savage  grandeur ;  while  the  starry  skies 
Rung  with  the  peal  of  mystic  harmonies. 
As  the  loud  harp  its  deep-toned  hymns  sent  forth 
To  the  storm- ruling  powers,  the  war-gods  of  the 

North. 

But  wilder  sounds  were  there  ;  th'  imploring  cry 
That  woke  the  forest's  echo  in  reply. 
But  not  the  heart's!— Unmoved,  the  wizard  train 
Stood  round  their  human  victim,  and  in  vain 
His  prayer  for  mercy  rose ;  in  vain  his  glance 
Look'd  up,  appealing  to  the  blue  expanse. 
Where,  in  their  calm,  immortal  beauty,  shone 
Heaven's  cloudless  orbs.    With  faint  and  fainter 

moan. 

Bound  on  the  shrine  of  sacrifice  he  lay. 
Till,  drop  by  drop,  life's  current  ehb'd  away; 
Till  rock  and  turf  grew  deeply,  darkly  red, 
And  the  pale  moon  gleam'd  paler  on  the  dead. 
Have  such  things  been,  and  here  ?— where  still- 
ness dwells 

'Midst  the  rude  barrows  and  the  moorland  swells 
Thus  undisturb'd?— Oh!  long  the  gulf  of  time 
Hath  closed  in  darkness  o'er  those  days  of  crime. 
And  earth  no  vestige  of  their  path  retains, 
Save  such  as   these,  which   strew  her  loneliest 

plains 

With  records  of  man's  conflicts  and  his  (loom. 
His  spirit  and  his  dust — the  altar  and  the  tomb 

But  ages  roll'd  away:  and  England  stood, 
With  her  proud  banner  streaming  t  :;r  the  flood 


86 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  with  a  lofty  calmness  in  her  eye, 

And  regal  in  collected  majesty, 

To  breast  the  storm  of  battle.     Every  breeze 

Bore  sounds  of  triumph  o'er  her  own  blue  seas; 

And  other  lands,  redeem'd  and  joyous,  drank 

The  life-blood  of  her  heroes,  as  they  sank 

On  the  red  fields  they  won  ;  whose  wild  flowers 

wave 
Now  in  luxuriant  beauty,  o'er  their  grave. 

'T  was  then  the  captives  of  Britannia's  war,  (6) 
Here  for  their  lovely  southern  climes  afar, 
In  bondage  pined  :  the  spall-deluded  throng 
Dragg'd  at  Ambition's  chariot-wheels  so  long 
To  die, — because  a  despot  could  not  clasp 
A  sceptre,  fitted  to  his  boundless  grasp ! 

Yes  !  they  whose  march  had  rock'd  the  ancient 

thrones 

And  temples  of  the  world  ;  the  deepening  tones 
Of  whose  advancing  trumpet,  from  repose 
Had  startled  nations,  wakening  to  their  woes, 
Were  prisoners  here. — And  there  were  some  whose 

dreams 

Were  of  sweet   homes,   by  chainless   mountain- 
streams. 

And  of  the  vine-clad  hills,  and  many  a  strain. 
And  festal  melody  of  Loire  or  Seine, 
And  of  those  mothers,  who  had  watch'd  and  wept, 
When  on  the  field  the  unshelter'd  conscript  slept, 
Bathea  with  the  midnight  dews.    And  some  were 

there, 

Of  sterner  spirits,  harden'd  by  despair  ; 
Who  in  their  dark  imaginings,  again 
Fired  the  rich  palace  and  the  stalely  fane, 
Drank  in  the  victim's  shriek,  as  music's  breath, 
And  lived  o'er  scenes,  the  festivals  of  death ! 

And  there  was  mirth  too!— strange  and  savage 

mirth. 

More  fearful  far  than  all  the  woes  of  earth! 
The  laughter  of  cold  hearts,  and  scoffs  that  spring 
From  minds  for  which  there  is  no  sacred  thing, 
And  transient  bursts  of  fierce,  exulting  glee,— 
The  lightning's  flash  upon  its  blasted  tree  I 

But  still,  howc'er  the  soul's  disguise  were  worn 
If,  from  wild  revelry,  or  haughty  scorn, 
Or  buoyant  hope,  it  won  an  outward  show, 
Slight  was  the  mask,  and  all  beneath  it — woe. 

Yet  was  this  all  ? — amidst  the  dungeon-glooin, 
The  void,  the  stillness,  of  the  captive's  doom, 
Were  there  no  deeper  thoughts  ? — And  that  dark 

power, 

To  whom  guilt  owes  one  late,  but  dreadful  hour. 
The  mighty  debt  through  years  of  crime  delay'd, 
But,  as  the  grave's,  inevitably  paid  ; 
Came  he  not  thither,  in  his  burning  force, 
The  lord,  the  tamer  of  dark  souls — Remorse  ? 

Yes  !  as  the  night  calls  forth  from  sea  and  sky 
From  breeze  and  wood,  a  solemn  harmony. 
Lost,  when  the  swift,  triumphant  wheels  of  day, 
In  light  and  sound,  are  lurrying  on  their  way: 
Thus,  from  the  deep  recesses  of  the  heart, 
The  voice  which  sleeps,  but  never  dies,  might  start 
Call'd  up  by  solitude,  each  nerve  to  thrill, 
With  accents  heard  not,  save  when  all  is  still ! 

The  voice,  inaudible,  when  Havoc's  train 
Crush'd  the  red  vintage  of  devoted  Spain  ; 
Mute,  when  sierras  to  the  war-whoop  rung, 
And  the  broad  light  of  conflagration  sprung 
From  the  South's  marble  cities  ;— -hush'd  'midst 

cries 

That  told  the  Heavens  of  mortal  agonies; 
But  gathering  silent  strength,  to  wake  at  last. 
In  concentrated  thunders  of  the  past  I 

And  there,  perchance,  some  long-bewilder'd  mir.d 
Torn  from  its  lowly  sphere,  its  path  confined 
Of  village-duties,  in  the  alpine  glen, 
Where  nature  cast  its  lot,  'midst  peasant-men  ; 
Drawn  to  that  vortex,  whose  fierce  ruler  blent 
The  earthquake-power  of  each  wild  element. 


To  lend  the  tide  which  bore  his  throne  on  high, 
One  impulse  more  of  desperate  energy  ; 
Might,  when  the  billow's  awful  rush  was  o'er, 
Which  toss'd  its  wreck  upon  the  storm-beat  shore, 
Won  from  its  wanderings  past,  by  suffering  tried 
Seareh'd  by  remorse,  by  anguish  purified, 
Have  fix'd  at  length  its  troubled  hopes  and  fears, 
On  the  far  world,  seen  brightest  through  our  tears, 
And  in  that  hour  of  triumph  or  despair, 
Whose  secrets  all  must  learn — but  none  declare, 
When,  of  the  things  to  come,  a  deeper  sense 
Fills  the  dim  eye  of  trembling  penitence. 
Have  turn'd  to  him,  whose  bow  is  in  the  cloud. 
Around  life's  limits  gathering,  as  a  shroud  ; — 
The  fearful  mysteries  of  the  heart  who  knows, 
And,  by  the  tempest,  calls  it  to  repose! 

Who  visited  that  death-bed  ?— Who  can  tell 
Its  brief,  sad  tale,  on  which  the  soul  might  dwell. 
And  learn  immortal  lessons?— who  beheld 
The  struggling  hope,  by  shame,  by  doubt  repe)l'd— 
The  agony  of  prayer — the  bursting  tears — 
The  dark  remembrances  of  gtiilty~years, 
Crowding  upon  the  spirit  in  their  might? — 
Fie,  through  the  storm  who  look'd,  and  there  was 
light ! 

That  scene   is  closed ! — that  wild,  tumultuous 

breast, 

With  all  its  pangs  and  passions,  is  at  rest! 
He,  too,  is  fallen,  the  master-power  of  strife, 
Who  woke  those  passions  to  delirious  life ; 
And  days,  prepared  a  brighter  course  lo  run, 
Unfold  their  buoyant  pinions  to  the  sun! 

It  is  a  glorious  hour  when  Spring  goes  forth. 
O'er  the  bleak  mountains  of  the  shadowy  North, 
And  with  one  radiant  glance,  one  magic  breath, 
Wakes  all  things  lovely  from  the  sleep  of  death; 
While  the  glad  voices  of  a  thousand  streams, 
Bursting  their  bondage,  triumph  in  her  beams! 

But  Peace  hath  nobler  changes!    O'er  the  mind, 
The  warm  and  living  spirit  of  man  kind. 
Her  influence  breathes,  and  bids  the  blighted  heart, 
To  life  and  hope  from  desolation  start ! 
She,  with  a  look,  dissolves  the  captive's  chain, 
Peopling  with  beauty  widow'd  homes  again  ; 
Around  the  mother,  in  her  closing  years, 
Gathering  her  sons  once  more,  and  from  the  tears 
Of  the  dim  past,  but  winning  purer  light, 
To  make  the  present  more  serenely  brigbt. 

Nor  rests  that  influence  here.    From  clime  t« 

clime, 

In  silence  gliding  with  the  stream  of  time, 
Still  doth  it  spread.,  borne  onwards,  as  a  breeze 
With  healing  on  its  wings,  o'er  isles  and  seas: 
And,  as  heaven's  breath  call'd  forth,  with  genial 

power, 

From  the  dry  wand,  the  almond's  living  flower; 
So  doth  its  deep-felt  charm  in  secret  move 
The  coldest  heart  to  gentle  deeds  of  love; 
While  round  its  pathway  nature  softly  giows. 
And  the  wide  desert  blossoms  as  the  rose. 

Yes !  let  the  waste  lift  up  the  exulting  voice  ! 
Let  the  far-echoing  solitude  rejoice ! 
And  thou,   lone  moor!  where  no  blithe  reaper  I 

song 

E'er  lightly  sped  the  summer-hours  along. 
Bid  thy  wild  rivers,  from  each  mountain-source, 
Rushing  in  joy.  make  music  on  their  course  ! 
Thou,  whose  sole  record  of  existence  mark 
rh i  scene  of  barbarous  rites,  in  ages  dark. 
And  of  some  nameless  combat;  Hope's  bright  eye 
Beams  o'er  thee  in  the  liuht  of  prophecy! 
Yet  shall  thou  smile,  by  busy  culture  drest. 
And  the  rich  harvest  wave  upon  thy  breast ! 
Yet  shall  thy  cottage-smoke,  at  dewy  morn, 
Rise,  in  blue  wreaths,  above  the  flowering  thorn, 
And  'midst  thy  hamlet-shades,  the  embosom'd  spir* 
Catch   from  deep-kindling  heavens  their  earliest 
fire. 

Thee  too  that  hour  shall  bless,  the  balmy  close 
Of  labour's  day,  the  herald  of  repose, 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS 


Which  gathers  hearts  in  peace  ;  while  social  mirth 
Basks  in  the  blaze  of  each  free  village-hearth ; 
While  peasant-songs  are  on  the  joyous  gales. 
And  merry  Kngland'8  voice  floats  up  from  all  her 

vales. 

Vet  are  there  sweeter  sounds;  and  thou  shall  hear 
Such  as  to  Heaven's  immortal  host  are  dear. 
Oh  !  if  there  still  be  melody  on  earth, 
Worthy  the  sacred  bowers  where  man  drew  birth, 
When  angel-steps  their  paths  rejoicing  trod, 
And  the  air  trembled  with  the  breath  of  God  • 
It  lives  in  those  soft  accents,  to  the  sky  (7) 
Borne  from  the  lips  of  stainless  infancy. 
When  holy  strains,  from  life's  pure  fount  which 

sprung, 
Breathed  with  deep  reverence,  falter  on  its  tongue 

And  such  shall  bet/iy  music,  when  the  cells, 
Where  Guilt,  the  child  of  hopeless  Misery,  dwells 
(And,  to  wild  strength  by  desperation  wrought, 
In  silence  broods  o'er  many  a  fearful  thought.) 
Resound  to  pity's  voice;  and  childhood  thence, 
Ere  the  cold  blight  hath  reach'd  its  innocence, 
Ere  that  soft  rose-bloom  of  the  soul  be  fled, 
Which  vice  but  breathes  on,  and  its  hues  are  dead, 
Shall  at  the  call  press  forward,  to  be  made 
A  glorious  offering,  meet  for  him,  who  said, 
"  Mercy,  not  sacrifice!"  and  when,  of  old, 
Clouds  of  rich  incense  from  his  altars  roll'd, 
Dispersed  the  smoke  of  perfumes,  and  laid  bare 
The  heart's  deep  folds,  to  read  its  homage  there  I 

When  some  crown'd  conqueror,  o'er  a  trampled 

world, 

His  banner,  shadowing  nations,  hath  unfurl'd, 
And,  like  those  visitations  which  deform 
Nature  for  centuries,  hath  made  the  storm 
His  pathway  to  Dominion's  lonely  sphere, 
Silence  behind,— before  him,  flight  and  fear; 
When  kingdoms  rock  beneath  his  rushing  wheels 
Till  each  far  isle  the  mighty  impulse  feels. 
And  earth  is  moulded  but  by  one  proud  will, 
Ati'l  srpptrod  realms  wear  fetters,  and  are  still, 
Shall  the  free  soul  of  song  bow  down  to  pay 
The  earthquake  homage  on  its  baleful  way  ? 
Shall  the  glad  harp  send  up  exulting  strains, 
O'er  burning  cities  and  forsaken  plains? 
And  shall  no  harmony  of  softer  close. 
Attend  the  stream  of  meicy  as  it  flows. 
And,  mingling  with  the  murmur  of  its  wave, 
Bless  the  green  shores  its  gentle  currents  lave  ? 

Oh!  there  are  loftier  themes,  for  him,  whose  eyes 
Have  search'd  the  depths  of  life's  realities, 
Than  the  red  battle,  or  the  trophied  car. 
Wheeling  the  monarch-victor  fast  and  far; 
There  are  more   noble  strains  than  those  which 

swell 
The  triumphs.  Ruin  may  suffice  to  tell ! 

Ye  prophet-bards,  who  sat  in  elder  days 
Beneath  the  palms  of  Judah !  Ye  whose  lays 
With  torrent  rapture,  from  their  source  on  high, 
Burst  in  the  strength  of  immortality  I 
Oh!  not  alone,  those  haunted  groves  among, 
Of  conquering  hosts,  of  empires  crush'd,  ye  sung, 
But  of  that  Spirit,  destined  to  explore 
With  the  bright  day-spring  every  distant  shore, 
To  dry  the  tear,  to  bind  the  broken  reed, 
To  make  the  home  of  peace  in  hearts  that  bleed  ; 
With  beams  of  hope  to  pierce  the  dungeon's  gloom, 
And  pour  eternal  star-light  o'er  the  tomb. 

And  bless'd  and  hallow'd  be  its  haunts !  for  there 
Hath  man's  high  soul  been  rescued  from  despair ! — 
There  hath  the  immortal  spark  for  Heaven  bren 

nursed, — 

There  from  the  rock  the  springs  of  life  have  burst 
duenchlessand  pure!  and  holy  thoughts,  that  rise 
Warm  from  the  source  of  human  sympathies, — 
Where'er  its  path  of  radiance  may  be  traced, 
Shall  find  their  temple  in  the  silent  waste. 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1. 

SfiH  rise  tht  cairnt  of  yore,  all  rudely  filed. 
In  some  parts  of  Dartmoor,  the  surface  is  thickly  strewed  with 
stones,  which,  in  many  instances,  appear  to  have  boen  collected  into 
piles,  on  the  tops  of  prominent  hillocks,  as  if  in  imitation  of  the 
natural  Tom.  The  Slone-barrows  of  Dartmoor  resemble  the  Cainu 
of  the  Cheviot  and  Grampian  hills,  and  those  in  Cornwall — See 
Cooke'i  Topographical  Survey  of  Devonthirc. 

NOTE  2. 

And  the  rude  arrow'i  barb  remain  to  tell. 
Flint  arrow-heads  have  occasionally  been  found  upon  Dartmoor, 

NOTE  3. 
The  chief  tain'i  power— they  had  no  bard,  and  died. 

Mul" :  Sed^mnes  illachryn.abiles 
Urgentur,  ignotique  longa 

Nocte,  carent  quia  vale  sacro. 

Horace. 
"They  had  no  Poet,  »nd  they  died." Popfi  Tramlatim. 

NOTE  4. 

There  itandi  an  altar  of  tmsculptured  stone. 
On  the  east  of  Dartmoor  are  some  Druidical  remains,  one  of  which 
is  a  Cromlech,  whose  three  rough  pillars  of  granite  support  a  pon 
deroiu  table-stone,  and  form  a  kind  of  large,  irregular  tripod. 

NOTE  5. 

Bade  the  red  caim-fira  blaze  from  every  heigW. 
In  some  of  the  Druid  festivals,  fires  were  lighted  on  all  the  cairns 
and  eminences  around,  by  priests,  carrying  sacred  torches.  All  the 
household  tires  were  previously  extinguished,  and  those  who  were 
thought  worthy  of  such  a  privilege,  were  allowed  to  relight  them 
with  a  flaming  brand,  kindled  at  the  consecrated  cairn-fire. 

NOTE  6. 

'Twos  then  the  captivei  of  Britanma't  war. 
The  French  prisoner!,  taken  in  the  wars  with  Napoleon,  wert 
confined  in  a  depot  on  Dartmoor. 

NOTE  7. 

/(  livei  in  those  toft  aaxnit,  to  the  tky. 

In  allusion  to  a  plan  for  the  erection  of  a  great  national  school 
house  on  Dartmoor,  where  it  was  proposed  to  educate  the  childre* 
of  convicts 


THE 

MEETING  OF  WALLACE  AND  BRUCE 

ON   THE 
BANKS    OF   THE    CARRON. 


A  PRIZE  POEM. 

The  Scottish  historians  describe  the  hero,  after  the  bat 
tie  of  Falkirk,  by  his  military  talents  and  presence  of 
mind,  preserving  the  troops  under  his  own  command, 
and  retreating  leisurely  and  in  good  order,  along  the 
banks  of  the  little  river  Carron,  which  protected  him 
from  the  enemy.  They  add,  that  Robert  Bruce*  ap- 
peared on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  and  soon  di» 
languishing  the  majestic  figure  of  Wallace,  he  calliMJ 
out  to  him,  and  desired  a  conference.  They  represent 
the  Scottish  hero  as  seizing  this  opportunity  to  awaken 
the  feelings  of  patriotism  in  the  youthful  mind  of 
Bruce;  as  appealing  to  him  in  behalf  of  his  country, 
and  describing  her  oppressed  state,  as  the  consequence 
of  being  deserted  by  those  whom  nature  and  fortune 
pointed  out,  as  best  fitted  by  birth  and  character  to 
maintain  the  national  independence.  The  enthusiasm 
of  the  speaker  is  said  to  have  made  a  deep  impression 
on  Bruce,  who  from  that  time  repented  of  his  engage- 
ments with  Edward,  and  secretly  determined  to  seize 
the  first  opportunity  of  aiding  the  cause  of  his  na- 
tive country. 


THE  morn  rose  bright  on  scenes  renown'd, 
Wild  Caledonia's  classic  ground, 
Where  the  bold  sons  of  other  days 
Won  their  high  fame  in  Ossian's  lays, 

*  Not  Robert  Bruce,  afterwards  king  of  Scotland,  but  hit  fetbo. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  fell  —  but  nut  till  Canon's  tide 

With  Herman  blood  was  darkly  dyed. 

—The  morn  rose  bright,  and  heard  the  cry 

Sent  by  exulting  hosts  on  Injih. 

And  saw  the  white-cross  banner  float 

(While  rang  each  clansman's  gathering  note) 

O'er  the  dark  plumes  and  serried  spears 

Of  Scotland's  daring  mountaineers. 

As,  nil  elate  with  hop,;,  (hex  stood 

To  h.iy  their  freedom  \\  ith  their  blood. 

The  s, inset  shone,  to  guide  the  flying, 
And  brain  a  farewell  to  the  dying! 
The  summer  moon,  on  Falkir'k's  field, 
Streams  upon  eyes  in  slumber  seal'd  : 
Deep  clumber,  not  to  pass  away, 
When  breaks  another  morning's  ray, 
Nor  vanish  when  the  trumpet's  voice 
Bills  ardent  hearts  a^ain  rejoice: 
What  sunbeam's  glow,  what  clarion's  breath, 
May  chase  the  still,  cold,  sleep  of  Death  ? 
Shrouded  in  Scotland's  blood-stain'd  plaid 
Low  are  her  mountain-warriors  laid  ; 
They  fell,  on  that  proud  soil,  whose  mould 
Was  blent  v\ith  heroes'  dust,  of  old, 
And,  guarded  by  the  free  and  brave, 
Yielded  th^  Roman  but  a  grave! 
Nobly  they  fell— yet  with  them  died 
The  warrior's  hope,  the  leader's  pride. 
Vainly  they  fell— that  martyr  host- 
All,  save  the  land's  high  soul,  is  lost. 
Blest  are  the  slain  !  they  calmly  sleep, 
Nor  see  their  bleeding  country  weep: 
The  shouts,  of  England'!  triumph  telling, 
Reach  not  their  daik  and  silent  dwelling; 
And  those,  surviving  to  bequeath 
Their  cons  the  choice  of  chains  or  death. 
May  give  the  slumberer's  lowly  bier 
An  envying  glance.— but  not  a  tear. 
But  thou,  the  fearless  and  the  free, 
Devoted  Knight  of  Ellerslie! 
No  vassal-spirit,  form'd  to  bow 
When  storms  are  gathering,  clouds  thy  brow 
No  shade  of  fear,  or  weak  despair, 
Blends  with  indignant  sorrow  there. 
The  ray  which  streams  on  yon  red  firld, 
O'er  Scotland's  cloven  helm  and  shield, 
Glitters  not  there  aione,  to  shed 
Its  cloudless  beauty  o'er  the  dead, 
But,  where  smooth  Carron's  rippling  wave 
Flows  near  that  death-bed  of  the  brave. 
Illuming  all  the  midnight  scene. 
Sleeps  brightly  on  thy  lofty  mien. 

But  other  beams.  O  Patriot !  shine 
In  each  commanding  glance  of  thine. 
And  other  light  hath  lill'd  thine  eye 
With  inspiration's  majesty. 
Caught  from  the  immortal  frame  divine 
Which  makes  thine  inmost  heart  a  shrine 
Thy  voice  a  Prophet's  tone  hath  won. 
The  grandeur  Freedom  lends  her  sou; 
Thy  bearing,  a  resistless  power, 
The  ruling  genius  of  the  hour; 
And  he,  yon  Chief,  with  mien  of  pride. 
Whom  Carron's  waves  from  thee  divide, 
Whose  haughty  gesture  fain  would  seek 
To  veil  the  thoughts  that  blanch  his  cheek, 
4*eels  his  reluctant  mind  controll'd 
By  thine,  of  more  heroic  mould ; 
Though,  struggling  all  in  vain  to  war 
With  that  high  mind's  ascendant  star. 
He,  with  a  conqueror's  scornful  eye, 
Would  mock  the  name  of  Liberty. 

— Heard  ye  the  Patriot's  awful  voice  ? 
"  Proud  victor !  in  thy  fame  rejoice! 
Hast  thou  not  seen  thy  brethren  slain, 
The  harvest  of  thy  battle-plain, 
And  bathed  thy  sword  in  blood,  whose  spot 
Eternity  shall  cancel  not  ? 
Rejoice!  with  sounds  of  wild  lament. 
O'er  her  dark  heaths  and  mountains  sent, 
With  dyii'5  moan,  and  dirge's  wail, 
Thy  ravaged  country  bids  thee  hail  I 


Rejoice  ! — while  yet  exulting  cries 
From  England's  conquering  host  arise, 
And  strains  of  choral  triumph  tell 
Her  royal  Slave  hath  fought  too  well. 
Oh!  dark  the  clouds  of  woe  that  rest 
Rroodine  o'er  Scotland's  mountain-crest , 
II. -r  bhielil  is  cleft,  her  banner  torn, 
O'er  martyr'd  chiefs  her  daughters  mourn  ; 
And  riot  a  breeze,  but  wafts  the  soimd 
Of  wailing  through  the  land  around. 
Yet  deem  not  thou,  till  life  depart. 
High  hope  shall  leave  the  patriot's  heart, 
Or  courage,  to  the  storm  inured, 
Or  stern  resolve,  by  woes  matured, 
Oppose,  to  Fate's  severest  hour. 
Less  than  unconquerable  power. 
No!  though  the  orbs  of  heaven  expire, 
Thine.  Freedom!  is  a  quern-Mess  fire! 
And  woe  to  him  whose  might  would  dare 
The  energies  of  thy  despair ! 
No!— when  thy  chain.  O  Bruce!  is  cast 
O'er  thy  land's  charter'd  mountain-blast, 
Then  in  my  yielding  soul  shall  die 
The  glorious  faith  of  Liberty! 

'•  Wild  hopes!  o'er  dreamer's  mind  that  rise," 
With  haughty  laugh,  the  Conqueror  cries, 
(Yet  his  dark  cheek  is  flush'd  with  shame, 
And  his  eye  fill'd  with  troubled  flame;) 
'•  Vain,  brief  illusions!  doom'd  to  fly 
England's  red  path  of  victory  I 
Is  not  her  sword  unmatch'd  in  might? 
Her  course,  a  torrent  in  the  fishtl 
The  terror  of  her  name  gone  forth 
Wide  o'er  the  regions  of  the  North? 
Far  hence,  'midst  other  heaths  and  snows. 
Must  Freedom's  footstep  now  repose. 
And  thon,  in  lofty  dreams  elate, 
Enthusiast!  strive  no  more  with  Fate! 
'T  is  vain— the  land  is  lost  and  won — 
Sheathed  be  the  sword,  its  task  is  done. 
Where  are  the  chiefs  who  stood  with  thee, 
First  in  the  battles  r-f  trip  free  ? 
The  firm  in  heart :  in  spirit  high  ? 
— They  sought  yon  fatal  field  to  die. 
Each  step  of  Edward's  conquering  host 
Hath  left  a  grave  on  Scotland's  coast." 

"  Vassal  of  England  !  yes,  a  grave. 
Where  sleep  the  faithful  and  the  brave; 
And  who  the  glory  would  resign 
Of  death  like  theirs,  for  life  like  thine? 
They  slumber— and  the  stranger's  tread 
May  spurn  thy  country's  noble  dead; 
Yet,  on  the  land  they  loved  so  well. 
Still  shall  their  burning  spirit  dwell, 
Their  deeds  shall  hallow  minstrel's  theme, 
Their  image  rise  on  warrior's  dream. 
Their  names  be  inspiration's  breath. 
Kindling  hieh  hope,  and  scorn  of  death, 
Till  hursts  immortal  from  tho  tomb, 
The  flame  that  shall  avenge  their  doom! 
This  is  no  land  for  chains— away ! 
O'er  softer  climes  let  tyrants  sway  ! 
Think'st  thou  the  mountain  and  the  storm 
Their  hardy  sons  for  bondage  form? 
Doth  our  stern  wintry  blast  instil 
Submission  to  a  despot's  will?  / 

— No  !  we  were  cast  in  other  mould 
Than  theirs,  by  lawless  power  controll'd. 
The  nurture  of  our  hitter  sky 
Calls  forth  resisting  energy, 
And  the  wild  fastnesses  are  onrs, 
The  rocks  with  their  eternal  towers! 
The  sou!  to  struggle  and  to  dare, 
Is  mingled  with  our  northern  air, 
And  dust  beneath  our  soil  is  lying, 
Of  those  who  died  for  fame  undying. 
Tread'st  thou  that  soil,  and  can  it  be 
No  loftier  thought  is  roused  in  thee? 
Doth  no  high  feeling  proudly  start 
From  slumber  in  thine  inmost  heart? 
IVo  secret  voice  thy  bosom  thrill, 
For  thine  own  Scotland  pleading  still? 
Oh  !  wake  thee  yet ! — indignant  claim 
A  nobler  fate,  a  purer  fame, 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


89 


And  cast  to  earth  thy  fetters  riven, 

And  take  thine  offer  d  crown  from  Heaven  I 

Wake  !  in  that  high  majestic  lot, 

Mav  the  dark  past  ba  all  forgot, 

A  IK'!  Scotland  shall  forgive  the  field, 

U'ii.>re  with  h.T  blood  thy  shame  was  seal'd. 

E'en  I, — though  on  that  fatal  plain 

Lies  my  heart's  brother  with  the  slain, 

Though,  reft  of  his  heroic  worth, 

My  spirit  dwells  alone  on  earth, 

And  when  all  other  grief  is  past, 

Must  I/tin  be  cherish'd  to  the  last; — 

Will  load  thy  battles,  guard  thy  throne, 

With  faith  unspotted  as  his  own, 

Nor  in  thy  noon  of  fame  recall 

Whose  was  the  guilt  that  wrought  his  fall." 

Still  dost  thoii  hear  in  stern  disdain  ? 
Are  Freedom's  warning  accents  vain  ? 
No.  royal  lirnce!  within  thy  breast, 
Wakes  each  high  thought,  too  long  suppress')) 
And  thy  heart's  noblest  feelings  live. 
Blent  in  that  suppliant  word — "  Forgive! 
Forgive  the  wrongs  to  Scotland  done! 
Wallace!  thy  fairest  palm  is  won  ; 
And  kindling  at  my  country's  shrine, 
My  soul  hath  caught  a  spark  from  thine. 
Oh  !  deem  not,  in  the  proudest  hour 
Of  triumph  and  exulting  power, 
Deem  not  the  light  of  peace  could  find 
A  home  within  my  troubled  mind. 
Conflicts  by  mortal  eye  unseen, 
Dark,  silent,  secret,  there  have  been, 
Known  but  to  Him,  whose  glance  can  trace 
Thought  to  its  deepest  dwelling-place. 
— 'T  is  past,  and  on  my  native  shore 
I  tread,  a  "rebel  son  no  more. 
Too  blest,  if  yet  my  lot  may  be. 
In  glory's  path  to  follow  thee  ; 
If  tears,  bv  late  repentance  pour'd, 
May  lave  the  blood-stains  from  my  swor<? 

— Far  other  tears,  (I  Wallace  !  rise 
From  thy  heart's  fountain  to  thine  eyes. 
Bright,  holy,  and  imchrck'd  iticy  spring, 
While  thy  voice  falters,  "  Hail,  my  King  I 
Be  every  wr  ing  by  memory  traced. 
In  this  full  tide  of  joy,  effaced  ! 
Hail  !  and  rejoice  !  thy  race  shall  claim 
An  heritage  of  deathless  fame, 
And  Scotland  shall  arise  at  length, 
Majestic  in  triumphant  strength, 
An  eagle  of  the  rock,  that  won 
A  way,  through  tempests,  to  the  sun 
Nor  scorn  the  visions,  wildly  grand, 
The  prophet-spirit  of  thy  land  ! 
By  torrent  wave,  in  desert  blast. 
Those  visions  o'er  my  thouchts  have  [ 
Where  mountain-vapours  darkly  roll. 
That  spirit  bath  possess'd  my  soul, 
And  shadowy  forms  have  met  mine  eye 
The  beings  of  futurity  ; 
And  a  deep  voice  of  years  to  be, 
Hath  told  mat  Scotland  shall  be  free. 

"He  conies!  exult,  thou  Sire  of  Kings! 
From  thee  the  Chief,  the  Avenger  springs  I 
Far  o'er  the  land  he  comes  to  save, 
His  banners  in  their  glory  wave. 
And  Albyn's  thousand  harps  awake 
On  hill  and  heath,  by  stream  and  lake, 
To  swell  the  strains  that  far  around 
Bid  the  proud  name  of  Bruce  resound. 
And  I — but  wherefore  now  recall 
The  whisner'd  omens  of  my  fall  ? 
They  come  not  in  mysterious  gloom, 
—There  is  no  bondage  in  the  tomb) 
O'er  the  soul's  world  no  tyrant  reigns, 
And  earth  alone  for  man  hath  chains! 
What  though  I  perish  ere  the  hour 
When  Scotland's  vengeance  wakes  in  power 
If  shed  for  her,  my  blood  shall  stain 
The  field  or  scaffold  not  in  vain. 
Its  voice,  to  efforts  more  sublime. 
Shall  rouse  the  spirit  of  her  clime, 


And  in  the  noontide  of  her  lot, 
My  country  shall  forget  me  notl 


Art  thou  forgot  1  and  hath  thy  worth 

Without  its  glory  pass'd  from  Earth? 

—  Rest  with  the  brave,  whose  names  belong 

To  the  high  sanctity  of  song, 

Charter'd  our  reverence  to  control, 

And  traced  in  sunbeams  on  the  soul 

T/tiiie,  Wallace!  while  the  heart  hath  still 

One  pulse  a  generous  thought  can  thrill, 

While  Youth's  warm  tears  are  yet  the  meed 

Of  martvr's  death,  or  hero's  deed. 

Shall  brightly  live,  from  age  to  age. 

Thy  country's  proudest  heritage. 

'Midst  her  green  vales  thy  fame  is  dwelling, 

Thy  deeds  her  mountain-winds  are  telling. 

Thy  memory  speaks  in  torrent-wave. 

Thy  step  hath  hallow'd  rock  and  cave  ; 

And  cold  the  wanderer's  heart  must  be, 

That  holds  no  converse  there  with  thee. 

Yet,  Scotland!  to  thy  champion's  shade, 
Still  are  thy  grateful  rites  dolay'd. 
From  lands  of  old  renown,  o'erspread 
With  proud  memorials  of  the  dead. 
The  trophied  urn,  the  breathing  bust, 
The  pillar,  guarding  noble  dust, 
The  shrine, where  art  and  genius  high 
Have  labour'd  for  Eternity  ; — 
The  stranger  comes  —his  eye  explore! 
The  wilds  of  thy  majestic  shores, 
Yet  vainly  seeks  one  native  stone. 
Raised  to  the  hero  all  thine  own. 

Land  of  bright  deeds  and  minstrel  lore 
Withhold  the  guerdon  now  no  more  ! 
On  some  bold  height  of  awful  form, 
Stern  eyrie  of  the  cloud  and  storm, 
Sublimely  mingling  with  the  skies, 
Bid  the  proud  Cenotaph  arise! 
Not  to  record  the  name  that  thrills 
Thy  soul,  the  watch- word  of  thy  hills: 
Not  to  assert  with  needless  claim, 
The  bright/or  ever  of  its  fame  ; 
But  in  the  apes  yet  untold, 
When  mi  I-.-  shall  be  the  days  of  old. 
To  rouse  high  hearts,  and  speak  thy  pride 
In  him,  for  thee  who  lived  and  died. 


Efte  2Last 


Thou  strives!  nobly, 

When  hard  of  ster-jer  «tuff  perhaps  had  sunk ; 

And  o'er  thy  fall,  if  t  be  to  decreed, 

Good  men  will  mourn,  and  brave  men  will  abed  teara. 


Fame  I  look  not  for, 

But  to  sustain,  in  Heaven's  all-seeing  eye, 
Before  my  fellow-men,  in  mine  own  sight, 
With  graceful  virtue  and  becoming  pride, 
The  dignity  and  honour  of  a  man. 
Thus  station'd  as  I  am,  I  will  do  all 
That  man  may  do. 

Uia  BaMift  Conitantiru  Palmolofut 


THE  fires  grew  pale  on  Rome's  deserted  shrines, 
In  the  dim  grot  the  Pythia's  voice  had  died ; 
—Shout,  for  the  Citv  of  ihe  Constantines, 
The  rising  City  of  the  billow-side. 
The  City  of  the  Cross !— great  Ocean's  bride, 
Crown'd  from  her  birth  she  sprung!— Long  ages 

pass'd. 

And  still  she  look'd  in  glory  o'er  the  tide, 
Which  at  her  feet  Barbaric  riches  cast, 
1'our'd  by  the  burning  East,  all  joyously  and  fast. 


90 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


II. 

Long  ages  past— they  left  her  porphyry  halls 
Still  trod  by  kingly  footsteps.    Gems  and  gold 
Broider'd  her  mantle,  arid  her  castled  walls 
Frown'd  in  their  strength;  yet  there  were  signs 

which  told 

The  days  were  full.    The  pure  high  faith  of  old 
Was  changed  ;  and  on  her  silken  couch  of  sleep 
She  lay,  and  murmur'd  if  a  rose-leaf's  fold 
Disturb'd  her  dreams ;  and  call'd  her  slaves  to 

keep 
Their  watch,  that  no  rude  sound  might  reach  her 

o'er  the  deep. 

III. 

But  there  are  sounds  that  from  the  regal  dwelling 
Free  hearts  and  fearless  only  may  exclude  ; 
"Pis  not  alone  the  wind  at  midnight  swelling, 
Breaks  on  the  soft  repose  by  Luxury  woo'd ! 
There  are  unbidden  footsteps,  which  intrude 
Where  the  lamps  glitter,  and  the  wine-cup  flows, 
And  darker  hues  have  stain'd  the  marble,  strew'd 
With  the  fresh  myrtle,  and  the  short-lived  rose, 
And  Parian  walls  have  rung  to  the  dread  march 
of  foes. 

IV. 

A  voice  of  multitudes  is  on  the  breeze. 
Remote,  yet  solemn  as  the  night-storm's  roar 
Through  Ida's  giant  pines!    Across  the  seas 
A  murmur  comesjike  that  the  deep  winds  bore 
From  Tempe's  haahted  river  to  the  shore 
Of  the  reed-crowrfd  Eurotas;  when,  of  old, 
Dark  Asia  sent  her  battle-myriads  o'er 
Th'  indignant  wave  which  would  not  be  con- 

troll'd, 
But,  past  the  Persian's  chain,  in  boundless  freedom 

roll'd. 

V. 

And  it  is  thus  again  ! — Swift  oars  are  dashing 

The  parted  waters,  and  a  light  is  cast 

On  their  white  foam-wreaths,  from  the  sudden 

flashing 
Of  Tartar  spears,  whose  ranks  are  thickening 

fast. 

There  swells  a  savage  trumpet  on  the  blast, 
A  music  of  the  deserts,  wild  and  deep. 
Wakening  strange  echoes  as  the  shores  are  past, 
Where  low  'midst  Hum's  dust  her  conquerors 

sleep, 

O'ershadowing  with  high-names  each  rude  sepul- 
chral heap. 

VI. 

War  from  the  West !— the  snows  on  Thracian 

hills 
Are  loosed  by  Spring's  warm  breath;  yet  o'er 

the  lands 

Which  HUMMUS  girds,  the  chainless  mountain  rills 
Pour  down  less  swiftly  than  the  Moslem  bands. 
War  from  the  East!— 'midst  Araby's  lone  sands, 
More  lonely  now  the  few  bright  founts  may  be, 
While  Ishmael's  bow  is  bent  in  warrior-hands 
Against  the  Golden  City  of  the  Sea  ;  (1) 
—On  !  for  a  soul  to  fire  thy  dust,  Thermopylas ' 

VII. 

Here  yet  again,  ye  mighty! — where  are  they, 
Who,  with  theirgreenOlympicgarlandscrown'd, 
Leap'd  up  in  proudly  beautiful  array, 
As  to  a  banquet  gathering,  at  the  sound 
Of  Persia's  clarion  1 — far  and  joyous  round, 
From  the  pine-forests,  and  the  mountain-snows, 
And  the  low  sylvan  valleys,  to  the  bound 
Of  the  bright  waves,  at  Freedom's  voice  they 

rose! 

—Hath  it  no  thrilling  tone  to  break  the  tomb's  re- 
pose ? 

VIII. 
They  slumber  with  their  swords!— the  olive 

shades 
In  vain  are  whispering  their  immortal  tale  I 


In  vain  the  spirit  of  the  past  pervades 

The  soft  winds  breathing  through  each  Grecian 

vale. 
— Yet  must  tlwu  wake,  though  all  unarm'd  and 

pale, 

Devoted  City ! — Lo  !  the  Moslem's  spear. 
Red  from  its  vintage,  at  thy  gates  ;  his  sail 
Upon  thy  waves,  his  trumpet  in  thine  ear  ! 
—Awake  and  summon  those,  who  yet,  perchance, 

may  hear ! 

IX. 

Behush'd,  thou  faint  and  feeble  voice  of  weeping! 
Lift  ye  the  banner  of  the  Cross  on  high. 
And  call  on  chiefs  whose  noble  sires  are  sleeping 
In  their  proud  graves  of  sainted  chivalry. 
Beneath  the  palms  and  cedars,  where  they  sigh 
To  Syrian  gales! — The  sons  of  each  brave  line, 
From  their  baronial  halls  shall  hear  your  cry, 
And  seize  the  arms  which  flash'd  round  Salcm's 

shrine, 
And  wield  for  you  the  swords  once  waved  for 

Palestine ! 

X. 

All  still,  all  voiceless  ;— and  the  billow's  roar 
Alone  replies!— Alike  their  soul  is  gone, 
Who  shared  the  funeral  feast  on  OEta's  shore, 
And  theirs,  that  o'er  the  field  of  Ascalon 
Swell'd  thecrusader'shymn  ! — Then  gird  thou  on 
Thine  armour,  Eastern  (Jueen !  and  meet  the 

hour. 
Which  waits  thee  ere  the  day's  fierce  work  is 

done, 

With  a  strong  heart ;  so  may  thy  helmet  tower 
Unshiver'd  through  the  storm,  for  generous  hope 

is  power  ! 

XI. 

But  linger  not. — array  thy  men  of  might ! 
The  shores,  the  seas  are  peopled  with  thy  foes. 
Anns  through  thy  cypress-groves  are  gleaming 

bright, 

And  the  dark  huntsmen  of  the  wild,  repose 
Beneath  the  shadowy  marble  porticoes 
Of  thy  proud  villas.     Nearer  and  more  near. 
Around  thy  walls  the  sons  of  battle  close  ; 
Each  hour,  each  moment,  hath  its  sound  of  fear. 
Which  the  deep  grave  alone  is  charter'd  not  to 

hear. 

XII. 

Away !  bring  wine,  bring  odours  to  the  shade,  (i) 
Where  the  tall  pine  and  poplar  blend  on  high! 
Bring  roses,  exquisite,  but  soon  to  fade  ! 
Snatch  every  brief  delight,— since  we  must  die! — 
Yet  is  the  hour,  degenerate  Greeks  !  gone  by, 
For  feast  in  vine-wreathed  bower,  or  pillar'd 

hall; 

Dim  gleams  the  torch  beneath  yon  fiery  sky, 
And  deep  and  hollow  is  the  tambour's  call. 
And  from  the  startled  hand  th'  untasted  cup  will 

fall. 

XIII. 

The  night,  the  glorious  oriental  night, 
Hath  lost  the  silence  of  her  purple  heaven. 
With  its  clear  stars  !    The  red  artillery's  light. 
Athwart  herworldd  of  tranquil  splendourdriven, 
To  the  still  firmament's  expanse  hath  given 
Its  own   fierce  glare,   wherein   each  cliff  and 

tower 

Starts  wildly  forth;  and  now  the  air  is  riven 
With  thunder-bursts,  and  now  dull  smoke-clouds 

lower. 
Veiling  the  gentle  moon,  in  her  most  hallow'd  hour 

XIV. 

Sounds  from  the  waters,  sounds  upon  the  earth, 
Sounds  in  the  air, of  battle!  Yet  with  these 
A  voice  rs  mingling,  whose  deep  tones  give  birth 
To  Faith  and  Courage !    From  luxurious  ease 
A  gallant  few  have  started!    O'er  the  seas, 
From  the  Seven  Towers,  (3)  their  banner  waves 

its  sign. 
And  Hope  is  whispering  in  the  joyous  breeze, 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


91 


Which  plays  amidst  its  folds.    That  voice  was 

thine; 
TViy  soul  was  on  that  band,  devoted  Constantine. 

XV. 

Was  Rome  thy  parent  1    Didst  thou  catch  from 

her 

The  fire  that  lives  in  thine  undaunted  eye  ? 
— That  city  of  the  throne  and  sepulchre 
Hath  given  proud  lessons  how  to  reign  and  die! 
Heir  of  the  Cffisars!  did  that  lineage  high. 
Which,  as  a  triumph  to  the  grave,  hath  pass'd 
With  its  long  march  of  sceptred  imagery,  (4) 
Th'  heroic  mantle  o'er  thy  spirit  cast  ? 
—Thou  of  an  eagle-race  the  noblest  and  the  last  I 

XVI. 

Vain  dreams!  upon  that  spirit  hath  descended 
Light   from  the  living  Fountain,  whence  each 

thought 

Springs  pure  and  holy  !  In  that  eye  is  blended 
A   spark,   with   Earth's    triumphal    memories 

fraught, 

And  far  within,  a  deeper  meaning,  caught 
From  worlds  unseen.     A  hope,  a  lofty  trust, 
Whose  resting  place  on  buoyant  wing  is  sought, 
(Though  through  its  veil,  seen  darkly  from  the 

dust,) 
n  realms  where  Time  no  more  hath  power  upon 

the  just. 

XVII.    x 

Those  were  proud  days,  when  on  the  battle-plain, 
And  in  the  sun's  bright  face,  and  'midst  the  array 
Of  awe-struck  hosts,  and  circled  by  the  slain, 
The  Roman  cast  his  glittering  mail  away,  (5) 
And  while  a  silence,  as  of  midnight,  lay 
O'er  breathless  thousands,   at   his  voice   who 

started, 

Call'd  on  the  unseen,  terrific  powers  that  sway 
The  heights,  the  depths,  the  shades ;  then  fear- 
less-hearted, 

Girt  on  his  robe  of  death,  and  for  the  grave  de- 
parted. 

XVIII. 

But  then,  around  him  as  the  javelins  rush'd, 
From  earth  to  heaven  swell'd  up  the  loud  ac- 
claim ; 

And,  ere  his  heart's  last  free  libation  gush'd, 
With  a  bright  smile  the  warrior  caught  his  name, 
Far  floating  on  the  winds  !    And  Victory  came, 
And  made  the  hour  of  that  immortal  deed, 
A  life  in  fiery  feeling!  Valour's  aim 
Had  sought  no  loftier  guerdon.    Thus  to  bleed, 
Was  to  be'Rome's  high  star !— He  died— and  had 
his  meed. 

XIX. 

But  praise — and  dearer,  holier  praise,  be  theirs, 
Who,  in  the  stillness  and  the  solitude 
Uncheer'd  by  Fame's  proud  hope,  th' ethereal  food 
Of  hearts  press'd  earthwards  by  a  weight  of 

cares. 

Of  restless  energies,  and  only  view'd 
By  Him  whose  eye,  from  his  eternal  throne, 
Is  on  the  soul's  dark  places ;  have  subdued 
And  vow'd  themselves,  with  strength  till  then 

unknown, 
To  some  high  martyr-task,  in  secret  and  alone. 

XX. 

Theirs  be  the  bright  and  sacred  names  enshrined 
Far  in  the  bosom !  for  their  deeds  belong, 
Not  to  the  gorgeous  faith  which  charm'd  man- 
kind 

With  its  rich  pomp  of  festival  and  song. 
Garland  and  shrine,  and  incense-bearing  throng; 
But  to  that  Spirit,  hallowing,  as  it  tries 
Man's  hidden  soul  in  whispers,  yet  more  strong 
Than  storm  or  earthquake's  voice ;   for  thence 

arise 
All  that  mysterious  world's  unseen  sublimities. 


XXI. 

Well  might  thy  name,  brave  Constantine!  awake 
Such  thought,  such  feeling  ! — But  the  scene  again 
Bursts  on  my  vision,  as  the  day-beams  break 
Through  the  red  sulphurous  mists !  the  camp, 

the  plain. 

The  terraced  palaces,  the  dome-cap!  fane, 
With  its  bright  cross  tix'd  high  in  crowning 

grace ; 

Spears  on  the  ramparts,  galleys  on  the  main. 
And,  circling  all  with  arms,  that  turban'd  race. 
The  sun,  the  desert,  stamp'd  in  each  dark,  haughty 

face. 

XXII. 

Shout,  ye  seven  hills  1  Lo!  Christian  pennon 

streaming 

Red  o'er  the  waters! (6)  Hail,  deliverers,  hail ! 
Along  your  billowy  wake  the  radiance  gleaming, 
Is  Hope's  own  smile!  they  crowd  the  swelling 

sail. 

On,  with  the  foam,  the  sun-beam,  and  the  pale, 
Borne,  as  a  victor's  car!    The  batteries  pour 
Their  clouds  and  thunders;  but  the  rolling  vril 
Of  smoke  floats  up  th'  exulting  winds  before ! 
And  oh!  the  glorious  burst  of  that  bright  sea  and 

shore  I 

XXIII. 

The  rocks,  waves,  ramparts,  Europe's,  Asia'x 

coast, 

All  throng'd  !  one  theatre  for  kingly  warl 
A  monarch  girt  with  his  Barbaric  host. 
Points  o'er  the  beach  his  flashing  scytnetar  ! 
Dark  tribes  are  tossing  javelins  from  afar. 
Hands  waving  banners  o'er  each  battlement. 
Decks,  with  their  serried  guns,  array'd  to  bar 
The  promised  aid  ;  but  hark  !  a  shout  is  sent 
Up  from  the  noble  barks  ! — the  Moslem  line  is  rent' 

XXIV. 

On,  on   through   rushing  flame,   and   arrowy 

shower, 

The  welcome  prows  have  cleft  their  rapid  way, 
And,  with  the  shadows  of  the  vesper-hour, 
Furl'd  their  white  sails,  and  anchor'd  in  the  bay 
Then  were  the  streets  with  song  and  torch-fire 

gay, 
Then  the  Greek  wines  flow'd  mantling  in  the 

light 

Of  festal  halls ;— and  there  was  joy  !— the  ray 
Of  dying  eyes,  a  moment  wildly  bright, 
The  sunset  of  the  soul  ere  lost  to  mortal  sight  1 

XXV. 

For,  yam  that  feeble  succour !  Day  by  day 
Th'   imperial   towers  are  crumbling,    and   the 

sweep 

Of  the  vast  engines,  in  their  ceaseless  play, 
Comes  powerful  as  when  Heaven  unbinds  the 

deep  I 

— Man's  heart  is  mightier  than  the  castled  steep, 
Yet  will  it  sink  when  earthly  hope  is  fled  ; 
Man's  thoughts  work  darkly  in  such  hours,  and 

sleep 
Flies  far :  and  in  their  mien,   the   walls   who 

tread, 
Things  by  the  brave  untold,  may  fearfully  be  read  I 

XXVI. 

It  was  a  sad  and  solemn  task  to  hold 
Their  midnight-watch  on  that  beleaguer'd  wal 
As  the  sea-wave  beneath  the  bastions  roll'd, 
A  sound  of  fate  was  in  its  rise  and  fall  ! 
The  heavy  clouds  were  as  an  empire's  pall. 
The  giant-shadows  of  each  tower  and  fane 
Lay  like  the  grave's;  a  low,  mysterious  call 
Breathed  in  the  wind,  and  from  the  tented  plain 
A  voice  of  omens  rose,  with  each  wild  martia' 
strain. 


92 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXVII. 

For  they  might  catch  the  Arab  charger's  neigh- 
ing, 

The  Thracian  drum,  the  Tartar's  drowsy  song, 
Might  almost  hear  the  soldan's  banner  swaying, 
The  watch-word  mutter'd  in  ioine  eastern 

tongue. 

Then  flash'd  the  gun's  terrific  light  along 
The  marble  streets,  all  stillness — not  repose  : 
And  boding  thoughts  came  o'er  them,  dark  and 

.    strong ; 

For  heaven,  earth,  air,  speak  auguries  to  those 
Who  see  their  number'd  hours  fast  pressing  to  the 
close. 

XXVIII. 

But  strength  is  from  the  mightiest !  Tlvre  is  one 
Still  in  the  breach  and  on  the  rampart  seen, 
Whose  cheek  grows  paler  witheach  morning  sun. 
And  tells  in  silence  how  the  night  hath  been, 
In  kingly  halls,  a  vigil :  yet  serene, 
The  lay  set  deep  within  his  thoughtful  eye 
And  there  is  that  in  his  collected  mien, 
To  which  the  hearts  of  noble  men  reply, 
With  fires,  partaking  not  this  frame's  mortality ! 

XXXIX. 

Yes !  call  it  not  of  lofty  minds  the  fate, 
To  pass  o'er  earth  in  brightness,  but  alone ; 
High  power  was  made  their  birthright,  to  create 
A  thousand  thoughts  responsive  to  their  ownl 
A  thousand  echoes  of  their  spirit's  tone 
Start  into  life,  where'er  their  path  may  be. 
Still   following  fast;   as  when   the  wind  hath 

blown 

O'er  Indian  groves,  (7)  a  wanderer  wild  and  free, 
Kindling  and  bearing  flames  afar  from  tree  to  tree ! 

XXX. 

And  it  in  thus  with  thee !  thy  lot  is  cast 
On  evil  days,  thou  Caisar !  yet  the  few 
That  set  their  generous  bosoms  to  the  blast 
Which  rocks  thy  throne — the  fearless  and  the 

true. 

Bear  hearts  wherein  thy  glance  can  still  renew 
The  free  devotion  of  the  years  gone  by, 
When  from  bright  dreams  th'  ascendant  Roman 

drew 

Enduring  strength!— states  vanish— ages  fly- 
But  leave  one  task  unchanged  —  to  suffer  and  to 

die! 

XXXI. 

These  are  our  nature's  heritage.    But  thou. 
The  crown'd  with  Empire!  thou  wert  call'd  to 

share 

A  cup  more  bitter.    On  thy  fever'd  brow 
The  semblance  of  that  buoyant  hope  to  wear, 
Which  long  had  pass'd  away  ;  alone  to  bear 
The  rush  and  pressure  of  dark  thoughts,  that 

came 

As  a  strong  billow  in  their  weight  of  care  ; 
And,  with  all  this,  to  smile!  for  earth-born  frame. 
These  are  stern  conflicts,  yet  they  pass,  unknown 

to  fame  ! 

XXXII. 

Her  glance  is  on  the  triumph,  on  the  field, 
On  the  red  scaf)4d ;  and  where'er,  in  sight 
Of  human  eyes,  the  human  soul  is  steel'd 
To  deeds  that  seem  as  of  immortal  might. 
Yet  are  proud  nature's!    But  her  meteor-light 
Can  pierce  no  depths,  no  clouds;   it  falls  not 

where. 

In  silence,  and  in  secret,  and  in  night, 
The  noble  heart  doth  wrestle  with  despair, 
And  rise  more  strong  than  death  from  its  unwit 

ness'd  prayer. 

XXXIIL 

Men  have  been  firm  in  battle:  they  have  stood 
With  a  prevailing  hope  on  ravaged  plains. 
And  won  the  birthright  of  their  hearths  with 

blood, 
And  died  rejoicing,  'midst  their  ancient  fanes. 


That  so  their  children,  undefined  with  chains, 
Might  worship  there  in  peace.    But  they  that 

stand 

When  not  a  beacon  o'er  the  wave  remains, 
Link'd  but  to  perish  with  a  ruin' il  land, 
Where  Freedom  dies  with  them — call  these  a  mar- 
tyr-band ! 

XXXIV. 

But  the  world  heeds  them  not.  Or  if,  perchance. 
Upon  their  strife  it  bend  a  careless  eye, 
It  is  but  as  the  Roman's  stoic  glance 
Fell  on  that  stage  where  man's  last  agony 
Was  made  his  sport,  who,  knowing  one  must  die, 
Reck'd  not  which,  champion  ;  but  prepared  the 

strain, 

And  bound  the  bloody  wreath  of  victory, 
To  greet  the  conqueror;  while,  with  calm  dis 

dain. 
The  vanquish'd  proudly  met  the  doom  he  met  in 

vain. 

XXXV. 

The  hour  of  Fate  comes  on  !  and  it  is  fraught 
With  this  of  Liberty,  that  now  the  need 
Is  past  to  veil  the  brow  of  anxious  thought, 
And  clothe  the  heart,  which  still  beneath  must 

bleed. 

With  Hope's  fair-seeming  drapery.  We  are  freed 
From  tasks  like  these  by  Misery  ;  one  alone 
Is  left  the  brave,  and  rest  shall  be  thy  meed. 
Prince,  watcher,  wearied  one  !  when  thou  hast 

shown 
How  brief  the  cloudy  space  which  parts  the  grave 

and  throne. 

XXXVI. 

The  signs  are  full.    They  are  not  in  the  sky, 
Nor  in  the  many  voices  of  the  air, 
Nor  the  swift  clouds.    No  fiery  hosts  on  high 
Toss  their  wild  spears;  no  meteor-banners  glare. 
No  comet  fiercely  shakes  its  blazing  hair, 
And  yet  the  signs  are  full :  too  truly  seen 
In  the  thinn'd  ramparts,  in  the  pale  despair 
Which  lends  one  language  to  a  people's  mien. 
And  in  the  ruin'd  heaps  where  walls  and  towers 
have  been  1 

XXXVII. 

It  is  a  night  of  beauty  ;  such  a  night 
As,  from  the  sparry  grot  or  laurel-shade, 
Or  wave  in  marbled  cavern  rippling  bright, 
Might  woo  the  nymphs  of  Grecian  fount  and 

glade 

To  sport  beneath  its  moonbeams,  which  pervade 
Their  forest  haunts:  a  night,  to  rove  alone, 
Where  the  young  leaves  by  vernal  winds  are 

sway'd. 

And  the  reeds  whisper,  with  a  dreamy  tone 
Of  melody,  that  seems  to  breathe  from  worlds  un- 
known. 

XXXVIII. 

A  night,  to  call  from  green  Elysium's  bowers 
The  shades  of  elder  bards :  a  night,  to  hold 
Unseen  communion  with  th'  inspiring  powers 
That  made  deep  groves  their  dwelling-place  of 

old ; 

A  night  for  mourners,  o'er  the  hallow'd  mould, 
To  strew  sweet  flowers;  for  revellers  to  fill 
And  wreath  the  cup ;  for  sorrows  to  be  told, 
Which  love  hath  cherish'd  long;— vain  thoughts! 

be  still! 
—It  is  a  night  of  fate,  stamp'd  with  Almighty 

Will! 

XXXIX. 

It  should  come  sweeping  in  the  storm,  and  rend 

ing 

The  ancient  summits  in  its  dread  career! 
And  with  vast  billows  wrathfully  contending. 
And  with  dark  clouds  o'ershadowing  every  spheis 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


93 


—  But  He,  whose  footstep  shakes  the  earth  with 
('ear. 

Passing  to  lay  the  sovereign  cities  low 

Alike  in  His  omnipotence  is  near, 

When  the  soft  winds  o'er  spring's  green  path 

way  blow, 

And   when    His    thunders    cleave   the  monarch- 
mountain's  brow. 

XL. 

The  heavens  in  still  magnificence  look  down 
On  the  hush'd  Bosphorus,  whose  ocean-stream 
Sleeps,  with  its  paler  stars  :  the  snowy  crown 
Of  far  Olympus,  (8)  in  the  moonlight-gleam 
Towers  radiantly,  as  when  the  Pagan's  dream 
Throng'd  it   with  gods,  and  bent  the   adoring 

knee! 

— But  that  is  past— and  now  the  One  Supreme 
Fills  not  alone  those  haunts;  but  earth,  air,  sea, 
And  time,  which  presses  on,  to  finish  his  decree 

XLI. 

Olympus,  Ida,  Delphi !  ye,  the  thrones 
And  temples  of  a  visionary  might, 
Brooding  in  clouds  above  your  forest-zones, 
And  mantling  thence  the  realms  beneath  with 

night: 
Ye  have  look'd  down  on  battles!   Fear,  and 

Flight, 

And  arm'd  Revenge,  all  hurrying  past  below! 
But  there  is  yet  a  more  appalling  sight 
For  earth  prepared,  than  e'er,  with  tranquil 

brow, 
Ye  gazed  on  from  your  world  of  solitude  and  snow  1 

XLII. 

Last  night  a  sound  was  in  the  Moslem  camp, 

And  Asia's  hills  re-echoed  to  a  cry 

Of  savage  mirth !— Wild  horn,  and  war-steeds 

tramp. 

Blent  with  the  shout  of  barbarous  revelry. 
The  clash  of  desert-spears!  Last  night  the  sky 
A  hue  of  menace  and  of  wrath  put  on, 
Caught  from  red   watch-fires,  blazing  far  and 

high, 

And  countless,  as  the  flames,  in  ages  gone, 
Streaming  to  heaven's  bright  queen  from  shadowy 

Lebanon! 

XLIII. 

But  all  is  stillness  now.    May  this  be  sleep 
Which  wraps  those  eastern  thousands?   Yes, 

perchance 

Along  yon  moonlight  shore  and  dark-blue  deep, 
Bright  are  their  visions  with  the  Houri's  glance, 
And  they  behold  the  sparkling  fountains  dance 
Beneath  the  bowers  of  paradise,  that  «shed 
Rich  odours  o'er  the  faithful ;  but  the  lance, 
The  bow.  the  spear,  now  round  the  slumberers 

spread. 
Ere  Fate  fulfil  such  dreams,  must  rest  beside  the 

dead. 

XLIV. 

May  this  be  sleep,  this  hush  ?— A  sleepless  eye 
Doth  hold  its  vigil  'midst  that  dusky  race! 
One  that  would  scan  th'  abyss  of  destiny, 
E'en  now  is  gazing  on  the  skies,  to  trace, 
In  those  bright  worlds,  the  burning  isles  of  space, 
Fate's  mystic  pathway  :  they  the  while,  serene, 
Walk  in  their  beauty ;  but  Mohammed's  face 
Kindles  beneath  their  aspect,  (9)  and  his  mien, 
All  fired  with  stormy  joy,  by  that  soft  light  is  seen. 

XLV. 

Oh!  wild  presumption  of  a  conqueror's  dream, 
To  gaze  on  those  pure  altar-fires,  enshrined 
In  depths  of  blue  infinitude,  and  deem 
They  shine  to  guide  the  spoiler  of  mankind 
O'er  fields  of  blood  !— But  with  the  restless  mind 
It  hath  been  ever  thus  I  and  they  that  veep 
For  worlds  to    <>m|u<>i    o'er  the  bound*  usaigu'd 


To  human  search,  in  daring  pride  would  sweep. 
As  o'er  the  trampled  dust  wherein  they  soon  musl 
sleep. 

XLVI. 

But  ye  1  tnat  beam'd  on  Fate's  tremendous  night 
When  the  storm  burst  o'er  golden  Babylon, 
And  ye,  that  sparkled  with  your  wonted  light 
O'er  burning  Salem,  by  the  Roman  won  ; 
And  ye,  that  calmly  view'd  the  slaughter  done 
In  Rome's  own  streets,  when  Alaric's  trumpet- 
blast  , 
Rung  through  the  Capitol;  bright  spheres!  mil 

on  ! 
Still  bright,  though  empires  fall ;  and  bid  man 

cast 

His  humbled  eyes  to  earth,  and  commune  with  the 
past. 

XLVII. 

For  it  hath  mighty  lessons!  from  the  tomb, 
And  from  the  ruins  of  the  tomb,  and  where, 
'Midst  the  wreck'd  cities  in  the  desert's  gloom, 
All  tameless  creatures  make  their  savage  lair, 
T/iet:ce  comes  its  voice,  that  shakes  the  midnight 

air, 

And  calls  up  clouds  to  dim  the  laughing  day. 

And  thrills  the  soul ; — yet  bids  us  not  despair. 

But  make  one  rock  our  shelter  and  our  stay. 

Beneath  whose  shade  all  else  is  passing  to  decay  t 

XLVIII. 

The  hours  move  on.    I  see  a  wavering  gleam 
O'er  the  hush'd  waters  tremulously  fall, 
Pour'd  from  th«  Ciesars'  palace :  now  the  beam 
Of  many  lamps  is  brightening  in  the  hall, 
And  from  its  long  arcades  and  pillars  tall 
Soft,  graceful  shadows  undulating  lie 
On  the  wave's  heaving  bosom,  and  recall 
A  thought  of  Venice,  with  her  moonlight  sky, 
And  fo-stal  seas  and  domes,  and  fairy  pageantry. 

XL1X. 

But  from  that  dwelling  floats  no  mirthful  sound 
The  swell  of  flute  and  Grecian  lyre  no  more, 
Wafting  an  atmosphere  of  music  round. 
Tells    the    Imsr.M    seaman,   gliding    past    the 

shore, 

How  monarch!i  revel  there !— Its  feasts  are  o'er— 
Why  gleam  the  lights  along  its  colonnade? 
— I  see  a  train  of  guests  in  silence  pour 
Through  its  long  avenues  of  terraced  shade. 
Whose  stately  founts  and  bowers  for  joy  alone 

were  made! 


In  silence,  and  in   arms !    With    helm — with 

sword — 

These  are  no  marriage-garments! — Yet  e'en  now 
Thy  nuptial  feast  should  grace  the  regal  board, 
Thy  Georgian  bride  should  wreath  her  lovely 

brow 

With  an  imperial  diadem  !  (10)— but  thou, 
O  fated  prince !  art  call'd.  and  these  with  thee. 
To  darker  scenes;  and  thou  hast  learn'd  to  bow 
Thine  Eastern  sceptre  to  the  dread  decree, 
And  count  it  joy  enough  to  perish— being  free  1 

LI 

On  through  long  vestibules,  with  solemn  tread 
As  men  that  in  some  time  of  fear  and  woe, 
Bear  darkly  to  their  rest  the  noble  dead. 
O'er  whom  by  day  their  sorrows  may  not  flow. 
The  warriors  pass :  their  measured  steps  arc 

slow, 

And  hollow  echoes  fill  the  marble  halls, 
Whose  long-drawn  vistas  open  as  they  go. 
In  desolate  pomp;  and  from  the  pictured  walls, 
Sad  seem!)  the  light  itself  which  on  their  armouJ 
falls ! 


94 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LII. 

And   they  have  reach'd  a  gorgeous  chamber, 

bright 

With  all  we  dream  of  splendour ;  yet  a  gloom 
Seems  gather'd  o'er  it  to  the  boding  sight, 
A  shadow  that  anticipates  the  tomb! 
Still  from  its  fretted  roof  tht   amps  illume 
A  purple  canopy,  a  golden  throne ; 
But  it  is  empty !— Hath  the  stroke  of  doom 
Fallen  there  already  ?— Where  is  Fie,  the  One, 
Bom  that  high  seat  to  fill,  supremely  and  alone  ? 

LIII. 

Oh!  there  are  times  whose  pressure  doth  efface 
Earth's    vain    distinctions !— when   the    storm 

beats  loud, 
When  the  strong  towers  are  tottering  to  their 

base, 

And  the  streets  rock,— who  mingle  in  the  crowd  ? 
— Peasant  and.chief,  the  lowly  and  the  proud, 
Are  in  that  throng  I— Yes,  life  hath  many  an  hour 
Which  makes  us  kindred,  by  one  chastening 

bow'd, 

And  feeling  but,  as  from  the  storm  we  cower, 
What  shrinking  weakness  feels  before  unbounded 

power  I 

LIV 

Yet  then  that  Power,  whose  dwelling  is  on  high 
Its  loftiest  marvels  doth  reveal,  and  speak 
In  the  deep  human  heart  more  gloriously, 
Than  in   the  bursting    thunder!— Thence  the 

weak, 
They  that  seem'd  form'd,  as  flower-stems,  but 

to  break 
With  the  first  wind,  have  risen  to  deeds,  whose 

name 

Still  calls  up  thoughts  that  mantle  to  the  cheek, 
And  thrill  tha  pulse!— Ay,  strength  no  pangs 

could  tame 
Hath  look'd  from  woman's  eye  upon  the  sword 

and  flame! 

LV. 

And  this  is  of  such  hours !— That  throne  is  void, 
And  its  lord  comes,   uncrown'd.    Behold  him 

stand, 

With  a  calm  brow,  where  woes  have  not  destroy'd 
The  Greek's  heroic  beauty,  'midst  his  band, 
The  gather'd  virtue  of  a  sinking  land, 
Alas  !  how  scanty  ! — Now  is  cast  aside 
All  form  of  princely  state  ?  each  noble  hand 
Is  prest  by  turns  in  his  :  for  earthly  pride 
There  is  no  room  in  hearts  where  earthly  hope 

hath  died! 

LVI. 

A  moment's  hush— and  then  he  speaks,  he  speaks ! 
But  not  of  hope  !  that  dream  hath  long  gone  by : 
His  words  are  full  of  memory — as  he  seeks, 
By  the  strong  names  of  Rome  and  Liberty, 
Which  yet  are  living  powers  that  lire  the  eye, 
And  rouse  the  heart  of  manhood ;  and  by  all 
The  sad  yet  grand  remembrances  that  lie 
Deep  with  earth's  buried  heroes ;  to  recall 
The  soul  of  other  years,  if  but  to  grace  their  fall  1 

LVI  I. 

His  words  are  full  of  faith!  — And  thoughts, 

more  high 
That  itome  e'er  knew,  now  fill  his  glance  with 

light ; 

Thoughts  which  give  nobler  lessons  how  to  die 
Than  e'er  were  drawn  from  Nature's  haughty 

might ! 

And  to  that  eye,  with  all  the  spirit  bright, 
Have  theirs  replied   in   tears,  which  may  not 

shame 

The  bravest  in  such  moments! — 'Tis  a  sight 
To  make  all  earthly  splendours  cold  and  tame, 
—That  generous  burst  of  soul,  with  its  electric 

flame ! 


LVIII. 

They  weep— those  champions  of  the  cross — they 

weep. 
Yet  vow  themselves  to  death !— Ay,  'midst  that 

train 

Are  martyrs,  privileged  in  tears  to  steep 
Thei"  lofty  sacrifice  ! — The  pang  is  vain, 
And  yet  its  gush  of  sorrow  tihall  not  stain 
A  warrior's  sword. — Those  men  are  strangers 

here  (11)— 

The  homes,  they  never  may  behold  again, 
Lie  far  away,  with  all  things  blest  and  dear. 
On  laughing  snores,  to  which  their  barks  no  more 

shall  steer ! 

LIX. 

Know'st  thou  the  land  where  bloom  the  orange 

bowers?  (12) 
Where  through  dark  foliage  gleam  the  citron's 

dyes? 

It  is  their  own.    They  see  iheir  father's  towers, 
'Midst  its  Hesperian  groves  in  sunlight  rise: 
They  meet  in  soul,  the  bright  Italian  eyes, 
Which  long  and  vainly  shall  explore  the  main 
For  their  white  sail's  return  :  the  melodies 
Of  that  sweet  land  are  floating  o'er  their  brain— 
-Oh!  what  a  crowded  world  one  moment  may 

contain  1 

LX. 

Such  moments  come  to  thousands !— few  may  die 
Amidst  their  native  shades.    The   young,  the 

brave. 

The  beautiful,  whose  gladdening  voice  and  eye 
Made  summer  in  a  parent's  heart,  and  gave 
Light  to  their  peopled  homes ;  o'er  land  and  wavt 
Are  scatter'd  fast  and  far,  as  rose-leaves  fall 
From  the  deserted  stem.    They  find  a  grave 
Far  from  the  shadow  of  th'  ancestral  hall, 
—A  lonely  bed  is  theirs,  whose  smiles  were  hope 
to  all! 

LXI. 

But  life  flows  on,  and  bears  us  with  its  tide. 
Nor  may  we,  lingering,  by  the  slurnberers  dwell, 
Though  they  were  those  once  blooming  at  oul 

side 
In  youth's  gay  home!  —  Away!  what  sound's 

deep  swell 

Comes  on  the  wind? — It  is  an  empire's  knell, 
Slow,  sad,  majestic,  pealing  through  the  night  I 
For  the  last  time  speaks  forth  the  solemn  bell, 
Which  calls  the  Christians  to  their  holiest  rite, 
With  a  funereal  voice  of  solitary  might. 

LXII. 

Again,  and  yet  again  ! — A  startling  power 
In  sounds  like  these  lives  ever;  for  they  bear 
Full  on  remembrance  each  eventful  hour, 
Chequering  life's  crowded  path.   They  fill  the  air 
When  conquerors  pass,  and  fearful  cities  wear 
A  mien  like  joy's;  and  when  young  brides  are 

led 

From  their  paternal  homes  ;  and  when  the  glare 
Of  burning  streets,  on  midnight's  cloud,  waves 

red, 
And  when   the  silent  house  receives  its  guest — 

the  dead.  (13) 

LXIII. 

But  to  those  tones  what  thrilling  soul  was  give» 
On  that  last  night  of  empire! — As  a  spell 
Whereby  the  life-blood  to  its  source  is  driven, 
On  the  chill'd.heart  of  multitudes  they  fefl. 
Each  cadence  seem'd  a  prophecy,  to  tell 
Of  sceptres  passing  from  their  line  away, 
An  angel-watcher's  long  and  sad  farewe'll, 
The  requiem  of  a  faith's  departing  sway 
A  throne's,  a  nation's  dirge,  a  wail  for  earth's  de 
cay. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


95 


LXIV. 

Again,  and  yet  again  !— from  yon  high  dome, 
Still  the  slow  peal  comes  awfully;  and  they 
Who  never  more  to  rest  in  mortal  home 
Shall  throw  the  breastplate  off  at  fall  of  day, 
Th'  imperial  band  in  close  and  arin'd  array, 
As  men  that  from  the  sword  must  part  no  more, 
Take  through  the  midnight  streets  their  silent 

way. 

Within  their  ancient  temple  to  adore, 
Ere  yet  its  thousand  years  of  Christian  pomp  are 

o'er. 

LXV. 

ft  is  the  hour  of  sleep :  yet  few  the  eyes 
O'er  which  forgetfulness  her  balm  hath  shed, 
In  the  beleagur'd  city.    Stillness  lies 
With  moonlight,  o'er  the  hills  and  waters  spread. 
But  not  the  less  with  signs  and  sounds  of  dread, 
The  time  speeds  on.     No  voice  is  raised  to  greet 
The  last  brave  Constantine  ;  and  yet  the  tread 
Of  many  steps  is  in  the  echoing  street, 
And  pressure  of  pale  crowds,  scarce  conscious  why 
they  meet. 

LXVI. 

Their  homes  are  luxury's  yet :  why  pour  they 

thence 

With  a  dim  terror  in  each  restless  eye? 
Hath  the  dread  car,  which  bears  the  pestilence, 
In  darkness,  with  its  heavy  wheels,  roll'd  by, 
And  rock'd  their  palaces,  as  if  on  high 
The  whirlwind  pass'd  ?— From  couch  and  joyous 

board 

Hath  the  fierce  phantom  beckon'd  them  to  die? 
— No!— what  are  these?  —  for  them  a  cup  is 

ponr'd  (14) 
More  dark  with  wrath  ; — Man  comes — the  spoiler 

and  the  sword. 

LXV  II. 

Still  as  the  monarch  and  his  chieftains  pass 
Through  those  pale  throngs,  the  streaming  torch- 
light throws 

On  some  wild  form,  amidst  the  living  mass, 
Hues  deeply  red,  like  lava's,  which  disclose 
What  count  li'ssshiipt's  arc  worn  by-mortal  WOPS! 
Lips  bloodless,  quivering  limbs,  hands claep'd  in 

prayer. 
Starts,   tremblings,   hurryings,   tears;   all  out 

ward  shows 

Betokening  inward  agonies,  were  there: 
—Greeks!  Romans!  all  but  such  as  image  brave 
despair ! 

LXVIII. 

But  high  above  that  scene  in  bright  repose, 
And  beauty  borrowing  from  the  torches'  gleams 
A  mien  of  life,  yet  where  no  life-blood  flows, 
But  all  instinct  with  loftier  being  seems, 
Pale,  grand,  colossal ;  lo  !  th'  embodied  dreams 
Of  yore!  — Gods,    heroes,    bards,    in    marble 

wrought. 

Look  down,  as  powers,  upon  the  wild  extremes 
Of  mortal  passion !— Yet 't  was  man  that  caught. 
And  in  each  glorious  form  enshrined  immortal 
thought ! 

LXIX. 

Stood  ye  not  thug  amidst  the  streets  of  Rome? 
That  Rome  which  witness'din  her  sceptred  days, 
So  much  of  noble  death?  — When  shrine  and 

dome, 

'Midst  clouds  of  incense,  rung  with  choral  lays, 
As  the  long  triumph  pass'd  with  all  its  blaze 
Of  r.'gnl  spoil,  were  ye  not  proudly  borne 
Of  sovereign  forms,  conci-ntering  all  the  rays 
Of  the  soul's  lightnings  ?— did  ye"  not  adorn 
The  pomp  which  earth  stood  still  to  gaze  on  and 
to  mourn  .' 


LXX. 

Hath  it  been  thus  ?— Or  did  ye  grace  the  halls, 
Once  peopled  by  the  mighty? — Uaply  there. 
In  your  still  grandeur,  from  the  pillar'd  walls 
Serene  ye  smiled  on  banquets  of  despair, 
Where  hopeless  courage  wrought  itself  to  dare 
The  stroke  of  its  deliverance,  'midst  the  glow 
Of  living  wreaths,  the  sighs  of  perfumed  air, 
The  sound  of  lyres,  the  flower-crown'd  goblet'i 

flow:  (15) 

—Behold  again!— high  hearts  make  nobler  offer- 
ings now! 

LXXI. 

The  stately  fane  is  reach'd— and  at  its  gate 
The  warriors  pause ;  on  life's  tumultuous  tide 
A  stillness  falls,  while  he,  whom  regal  state 
Hath  mark'd  from  all,  to  be  more  sternly  tried 
By  suffering,  speaks; — each  ruder  voice  hath 

died. 

While  his  implores  forgiveness!—"  If  there  he 
One  'midst  your  throngs,  my  people  1 — whom  in 

pride, 

Or  passion,  I  have  wrong'd  ;  such  pardon,  free 
As  mortals  hope  from  Heaven,  accord  that  man  to 

me." 

LXXII. 

But  all  is  silence ;  and  a  gush  of  tears 
Alone  replies! — He  hath  not  been  of  those 
Who,  fear'd  by  many,  pine  in  secret  fears 
Of  all ;  th'  environ'd  but  by  slaves  and  foes, 
To  whom  day  brings  not  safety,  night  repose. 
For  they  have  heard  the  voice  cry,   "sleep  nc 

more  /" 

Of  them  he  hath  not  been,  nor  such,  as  close 
Their  hearts  to  misery,  till  the  time  is  o'er. 
When  it  speaks  low  and  kneels  th'  oppressor's 
throne  before  I 

LXXHI. 

He  hath  been  loved— but  who  may  trust  the  love 
Of  a  degenerate  race  ?— in  other  mouki 
Are  cast  the  free  and  lofty  hearts,  that  prove 
Their  faith  through  fiery  trials,— yet  behold, 
And  call  him  not  forsaken,— thoughts  untold 
Have  lent  his  aspect  calmness,  and  his  tread 
Moves  firmly  to  the  shrine.— What  pomps  unfold 
Within  its  precincts!— isles  and  seas  have  shed 
Their  gorgeous  treasures  there,  around  th'  impe- 
rial dead. 

LXXIV. 

•Tis  a  proud  vision— that  most  regal  pile 
Of  ancientdays!—  the  lamps  arestreaming  bright 
From  its  rich  altar,  down  each  pillar'd  isle. 
Whose  vista  fades  in  dimness ;  but  the  sight 
Is  lost  in  splendours,  as  the  wavering  light 
Developes  on  those  walls  the  thousand  dyes 
Of  the  vein'd  marbles,  which  array  their  height, 
And  from  yon  dome,  (16)  the  lode-star  of  all  eyes, 
Pour  such  an  iris-glow  as  emulates  the  skies. 

LXXV. 

But  gaze  thou  not  on  these  ;  though  heaven's 

own  hues 

In  their  soft  clouds  and  radiant  tracery  vie  ; 
Though  tints,  of  sun-burnt  glory,  may  suffuse 
Arch,  column,  rich  mosaic:  pass  thou  by 
The  stately  tombs,  where  eastern  Csesars  lie, 
Beneath  their  trophies;    pause   not  here,    foi 

know, 

A  deeper  source  of  all  sublimity 
Lives  in  man's  bosom,  than  the  world  can  show, 
In  nature  or  in  art,  above,  around,  below. 

LXXVI. 
Turn  thou  to  mark  (though  tears  may  dim  thy 

gaze) 

The  steel-clad  group  before  yon  altar-stone  ; 
Heed  not,  though  gems  and  gold  around  itblnze. 
Those   heads   unhelm'd,  those   kneeling  form* 

alone, 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thus  bow'd,  look  glorious  here.    The  light  is 

thrown 

Full  from  the  shrine  on  one,  a  nation's  lord, 
A  sufferer!— but  his  task  shall  soon  be  done— 
E'en  now,  as  Faith's  mysterious  cup  is  pour'd. 
See  to  that  noble  brow,  peace,  not  of  earth,  re 
stored  1 

LXXVII. 

The  rite  is  o'er.    The  band  of  brethren  part, 
Once — and  but  once — to  meet  on  earth  again  1 
Each  in  the  strength  of  a  collected  heart, 
To  dare  what  man  may  dare—  and  know  'tis 

vain ! 

The  rite  is  o'er,  and  thou  majestic  fane  1 
The  glory  is  departed  from  thy  brow  ! 
Be  clothed  with  dust!— the  Christian's  farewell 

strain 

Hath  died  within  thy  walls ;  thy  Cross  must  how; 
Thy  kingly  tombs  be  spoil'd;  thy  golden  shrines 

laid  lowl 

LXXVIII. 

The  streets  grow  still  and  lonely— and  the  star. 
The  last  bright  lingerer  in  the  path  of  morn, 
Gleams  faint ;  and  in  the  very  lap  of  war, 
As  if  young  Hope  with  Twilight's  rays  were 

born. 

Awhile  the  city  sleeps; — her  throngs,  o'erworn 
With  fears  and  watchings,  to  their  homes  retire : 
Nor  is  the  balmy  air  of  day-spring  torn 
With  battle  sounds; (17)  the  winds  in  sighs  ex- 
pire, 

And  Qiiit; t  broods  in  mists,  that  veil  the  sunbeam's 
fire. 

LXXIX. 

The  city  sleeps ! — ay  !  on  the  combat's  eve. 
And  by  the  scaffold's  brink,  and  'midst  the  swell 
Of  angry  seas,  hath  Nature' won  reprieve 
Thus  from  her  cares.   The  brave  have  slumber'd 

well, 

Arnd  e'en  the  fearful,  in  their  dungeon-cell, 
/hain'd  between  Life  and  Death  i — Such  rest  be 

thine, 

For  conflict  waits  thee  still ! — Yet  who  can  tell 
In  that  brief  hour,  how  much  of  Heaven  may 

shine 
all  on  thy  spirit's  dream  I— Sleep,  weary  Con- 

stantine  I 

LXXX. 

Doth  the  blast  rise?— the  clouded  East  is  red, 
As  if  a  storm  were  gathering ;  and  I  hear 
What  seems  like  heavy  rain-drops,  or  the  tread, 
The  soft  and  smother'd  step,  of  those  that  fear 
Surprise  from  atnbush'd  foes.    Hark !  yet  more 

near 

It  comes,  a  many-toned  and  mingled  sound  , 
A  rustling,  as  of  winds  where  boughs  are  sear, 
A  rolling  as  of  wheels  that  shake  the  ground 
From  far  ;  a  heavy  rush,  like  seas  that  burst  their 

bound ! 

LXXXI. 

Wake,  wake!  They  come  from  sea  and  shore, 

ascending 

In  hosts  your  ramparts!  Arm  ye  for  the  day! 
Who  nowmay  sleepamidst  the  thunders  rending. 
Through  tower  and  wall,  a  path  for  their  array  ? 
Hark  !  how  the  trumpet  cheers  them  to  the  prey. 
With  its  wild  voice  to  which  the  seas  reply  ! 
And  the  earth  rocks  beneath  their  engine's  sway, 
And  the  far  hills  repeat  their  battle-cry, 
Till  that  fierce  tumult  seems  to  shake  the  vaulted 

sky! 

LXXXII. 

TTiey  fail  not  now,  the  generous  band,  that  long 
Have  ranged  their  swords  around  a  falling 

throne ; 

Still  in  those  fearless  men  the  walls  are  strong, 
Hearts,  such  as  rescue  empires,  are  their  own  1 
— Shall  those  high  energies  be  vainly  shown  ? 


No'  from  their  towers  th'  invading  tide  is  driven 
Back,  like  the  Reit-Sea  waves,  when  God  hud 

blown 
With  his  strong  winds! (18)— the    dark-brow'd 

ranks  are  riven  — 
Shout,  warriors  of  the  cross!— for  victory  is  of 

Heaven ! 

LXXXIII. 

Stand  firm! — Again  the  crescent  host  is  rushing 
And  the  waves  foam,  as  on  the  galleys  sweep, 
With  all  their  fires  and  darts,  though  blood  ii 

gushing 

Fast  o'er  their  sides,  as  rivers  to  the  deep. 
Stand  firm  ! — there  yet  is  hope — th'  ascent  is 

steep, 

And  from  on  high  no  shaft  descends  in  vain  ; 
—But  those  that  fall  swell  up  the  mangled  heap, 
In  the  red  moat,  the  dying  and  the  slain. 
And  o'er  that  fearful  bridge  th'  assailants  mount 

again  1 

LXXXIV. 

Oh !  the  dread  mingling  in  that  awful  hour, 
Of  all  terrific  sounds ! — the  savage  tone 
Of  the  wild  horn,  the  cannon's  peal,  the  shnwer 
Of  hissing  darts,  the  crash  of  walls  o'erthrown, 
The  deep,   dull   tambour's  beat!— man's  voice 

alone 

Is  there  unheard !   Ye  may  not  catch  the  cry 
Of  trampled  thousands — prayer,  and  shriek,  and 

moan, 

All  drown'd,  as  that  fierce  hurricane  sweeps  by, 
But  swell  the  unheeded  sum  earth  pays  for  victory ! 

LXXXV. 

War-clouds  have  wrapt  the  city !— through  their 

dun 

O'erloaded  canopy,  at  times  a  blaze, 
As  of  an  angry  storm-presaging  sun, 
From  the  Greek  fire  shoots  up ;  (19)  and  lightning 

ravs 
Flash,  from  the  shock  of  sabres,  through  the 

haze, 

And  glancing  arrows  cleave  the  dusky  air! 
— Ay  !  tkis  is  in  the  compass  of  our  gaze, — 
But  fearful  things,  unknown,  untold,  are  there, 
Workings  of  Wrath  and  Death,  and  Anguish,  and 

Despair! 

LXXXV1. 

Woe,  shame  and  woe! — A  chief,  a  warrior  flies, 
A  red-cross  champion,  bleeding,  wild,  and  pale  ! 
— Oh  God  !  that  nature's  passing  agonies 
Thus  o'er  the  spark  which  dies  not  should  pre- 
vail ! 

Yes!  rend  the  arrow  from  thy  shatter'd  mail. 
And    stanch    the    blood  drops,  Genoa's  fallen 

son !  (20) 

Fly  swifter  yet !  the  javelins  pour  as  hail  I 
— But  there  are  tortures  which  thou  canst  not 

shun, 
The  spirit  is  their  prey ;— thy  pangs  are  but  begun  I 

LXXXVII. 

Oht  happy  in  their  homes,  the  noble  dead  I 

The  seal  is  set  on  their  majestic  fame  ; 

Earth  has  drunk  deep  the  generous  blood  they 

shed, 

Fate  has  no  power  to  dim  their  stainless  name! 
They  may  not,  in  one  bitter  moment,  shame 
Long  glorious  years  ;  from  many  a  lofty  stein 
Fall   graceful   flowers,   and  eagle-hearts  grow 

tame, 

And  stars  drop,  fading,  from  the  diadem  ; 
But  the  bright  past  is  theirs— there  is  no  change 

for  them  I 

LXXXVHI. 
Where  art  thou,  Constantine  ?— Where  Death  ia 

reaping 

His  sevenfold  harvest!  Where  the  stormy  light, 
Fast  as  th'  artillery's  thunderbolts  are  sweeping. 
Throws  meteor-bursts  o'er  battle's  noonday 

night  1 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL 


Where  the  towers  rock  and  crumble  from  their 

height, 

As  tn  tin?  earthquake,  anil  the  engines  ply 
Likt!  red  Vrsuvio;  and  where  human  might 
Confronts  nil  this,  and  still  brave  hearts  beat 

high, 
While  scymetars  ring  loud  on  shivering  panoply. 

LXXXIX. 

Where  art  thou,  Constantine  ? — Where  Christian 

blood 

Hath  bathed  the  walls  in  torrents,  and  in  vain  I 
Where  Faith  and  Valour  perish  in  the  flood, 
Whose  billows,  rising  o'er  their  bosoms,  gain 
Dark  strength  each  moment  :  where  the  gallant 

slain 

Around  the  banner  of  the  cross  lie  strew'd, 
Thick  as  the  vine-leaves  on  tneaiitiiinn.il  plain; 
Where  all,  save  one  high  spirit,  is  subdued. 
And  through  the  breach  press  on  the  o'er  whelming 

multitude. 


XC1. 

Search  for  him  now,  where  bloodiest  lie  the  files 
Which   once   were   men,  the   faithfuj   and   the 

brave ! 

Search  for  him  now,  where  loftiest  rise  the  piles 
Of  shatter'd  helms  and  shields,  which  could  not 

save; 

And  crests  and  banners,  never  more  to  wave 
In  the  free  winds  of  heaven  1 — fie  is  of  those 
O'er  whom  the  host  may  rush,  the  tempest  rave 
And  tin-  steeds  trample,  and  the  spearmen  close 
Vet  wake  them  not!— so  deep  their  long  and  last 

re  pose  1 

XCH. 

Woe  to  Hie  vanquish'd  !  thus  it  hath  been  still. 
Since  Time's  first  march  !— Hark,  hark,  a  peo- 
ple's cry ! 

Ay  !  now  the  conquerors  in  the  streets  fulfil 
Their  task  of  wrath!  In  vain  the  victims  fly  ; 
Hark !  now  each  piercing  tone  of  agony 
Blends  in  the  city's  shriek  ! — The  lot  is  cast. 
Slaves,  'twas  your  choice,  thus,  rather  thus,  to 

die. 
Than  where  the  warrior's  blood  flows  warm  and 

fast. 

And  roused  and  mighty  hearts  beat  proudly  to  the 
last! 

XCIII. 

Oh  !  well  doth  freedom  battle !— Men  have  made, 
E'en  'midst  their  blazing  roofs,  a  noble  stand. 
And  on  the  floors,  where  once  their  children 

play'd. 
And  by  the  hearths,  round  which  their  house 

hold  band 

At  evening  met;  ay!  struggling  hand  to  hand, 
Within  the  very  chambers  of  their  sleep, 
There  have  they  taught  the  spoilers  of  the  land, 
In  chainless  hearts  what  fiery  strength  lies  deep, 
To  guard  free  homes ! — but  ye  I  kneel,  tremblers ! 

kneel  and  weep! 

XCIV. 

•Tis  eve— the  storm  hath  died— the  valiant  rest 
Low  on  their  shields ;  the  day's  fierce  work  is 

done. 

And  blood-stain'd  seas  and  burning  towers  attest 
Its  fearful  deeds.     An  empire's  lace  is  run  I 
Pad,  'midst  his  glory,  looks  the  parting  sun 
ITpon  the  captive  city.     Hnrk!  a  swell 
(Meet  to  proclaim  Barbaric  war-fields  won) 

M 


Of  fierce  triumphal  sounds,  that  wildly  tell, 
The  Soldan  comes   within   the  Cssars'   halls  to 
dwell! 

XCV. 

Yes !  with  the  peal  of  cymbal  and  of  gong, 
Hecomes,  the  Moslem  treads  those  ancient  halls 
But  all  is  stillness  there,  as  Death  had  long 
Been  lor. I  alone  within  those  gorgeous  walls. 
And  half  that  silence  of  the  grave  appals 
The  conqueror's  heart.    Ay,  thus  with  Triumph'i 

hour, 

Still  comes  the  boding  whisper,  which  recalls 
A  III  HiL'lit  of  those  impervious  clouds  that  lower 
O'er  Grande  ir's  path,  a  sense  of  some  far  mightier 

Power! 

XCVI. 

"  The  owl  upon  Afrasiah's  t^mis  natfi  surf 
Her  watch-song,  and  nrom.,',  IN   imperial  thtope 
The  spider  weaves  his  web!" (21)    Still  dacklt 

hung 

That  verse  of  omen,  as  a  prophet's  tone, 
O'er   his  flnsh'd  spirit.    Years  on   years  have 

flown 

To  prove  its  truth:  kings  pile  their  domes  in  air, 
That  the  coil'd  snake  may  bask  on  sculptured 

stone, 

And  nations  clear  the  forest,  to  prepare 
For  the  wild  fox  and  wolf  more  stately  dwellings 

there  1 

xcvn. 

But  thon  !  that  on  thy  ramparts  proudly  dying, 
As  a  crown'd  leader  in  such  hours  should  die. 
Upon  thy  pyre  of  shiver'd  spears  art  lying, 
With  the  heavens  o'er  thee  for  a  canopy, 
And  banners  for  thy  shroud  ! — No  tear,  no  sigh, 
Shall  mingle  with  thy  dirge;  for  th  >u  art  now 
Beyond  vicissitude!    Lo !  rear'd  on  high. 
The  Crescent  blazes,' while  the  cross  must  how; 
But  where  no  change  can  reach,  there,  Constan- 
tino, art  thou  I 

XCVIII. 

•  After  life's  fitful  fever,  thou  sleep's!  well !" 
We  may  not  mourn  thee  !— Sceptred  chiefs,  from 

whom 

The  earth  received  her  destiny,  and  fell 
Before  them  trembling — to  a  sterner  doom 
Have  oft  been  call'd.     For  them  the  dungeon'! 

gloom, 

With  its  cold  starless  midnight,  hath  been  made 
More  fearful  darkness,  where,  as  in  a  tomb, 
Without  a  tomb's  repose,  the  chain  hath  weigh'd 
Their  very  soul  to  dust,  with  each  high  power  de- 

cay'd. 

XCIX. 

Or  in  the  eye  of  thousands  they  have  stood, 
To  meet  the  stroke  of  Death— but  not  like  thee  1 
From   bonds   and  scaffolds  hath  appeal'd  their 

blood. 

But  thou  didst  fall  unfelter'd,  arm'd,  and  free, 
Aud  kingly  to  the  last ! — And  if  it  be, 
That,  from  the  viewless  world,  whose  marvds 

none 

Return  to  tell,  a  spirit's  eye  can  see  , 

The  things  of  earth  ;  still  may's t  thou  hail  the 

sun, 
Which  o'er  thy  land  shall  dawn,  when  Freedom's 

fight  is  won  1 

G. 

And  the  hour  comes,  in  storm!  — A  light  is 

glancing 

Far  through  the  forest-god's  Arcadian  shades  ! 
— 'Tis  not  the  moonbeam,  tremulously  dancing, 
Where  lone  Alpheus  bathes  his  haunted  glades; 
A  murmur,  gathering  power,  the  air  pervades. 
Round  dark  Citharon,  and  by  Delphi's  steep; 
— 'Tis  not  the  song  and  lyre  of  Grecian  maids, 
Nor  pastoral  reed  that  lulls  the  vales  to  sleep, 
Nor  yet  the  rustling  pines,  nor  yet  the  sounding 

deep! 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CL 

Arms  glitter  on  the  mountains,  which,  of  old, 
Awoke  to  freedom's  first  heroic  strain. 
And  by  the  streams,  once  crimson  as  they  roll'd 
The  Persian  helm  and  standard  to  the  main  ; 
And  the  blue  waves  of  Salamis  again 
Thrill  to  the  tmmpet;  and  the  tombs  reply 
With  their  ten  thousand  echoes,  from  each  plain, 
Far  as  Plataea's,  where  the  mighty  lie, 
Who  crown'd  so  proudly  there  the  bowl  of  liber- 
ty !  (22) 

CII. 

Bright  land  with  glory  mantled  o'er  by  song! 
Land  of  the  vision-peopled  hills  and  streams. 
And  fountains,  whose  deserted  banks  along, 
Still  the  soft  air  with  inspiration  teems; 
Land  of  the  graves,  whose  dwellers  shall  be 

themes 

To  verse  for  ever ;  and  of  ruin'd  shrines 
That  scarce  look  desolate  beneath  such  beams, 
As  bathe  in  gold  thine  ancient  rocks  and  pines  1 
—When  shall  thy  sons  repose  in  peace  beneath 

their  vines? 

CHI. 

Thou  weit  not  made  for  bonds,  nor  shame,  not 

fear! 

— Do  the  hoar  oaks  and  dark-irreen  laurels  wave 
O'er  Mantintea's  earth  ? — doth  Pindus  rear 
His  snows,  the  sunbeam  and  the  storm  to  brave  ? 
And  is  there  yet  on  Marathon  a  grave  7 
And  doth  Eurotas  lead  his  silvery  line 
By  Sparta's  ruins? — And  shall  man.  a  slave, 
Bow'd  to  the  dust,  amid  such  scenes  repine? 
—If  e'er  a  soil  was  mark'd  for  Freedom's  step— 't  is 
thine ! 

CIV. 

Wash  from  that  soil  the  stains,  with  battle- 
showers  ! 

— Beneath  Sophia's  dome  the  Moslem  prays. 
The  Crescent  gleams  amidst  the  olive-bowers, 
In  the  Comueni's  halls  (23)  the  Tartar  sways : 
But  not  for  long! — the  spirit  of  those  days, 
When  the  three  hundred  made  their  funeral  pile 
Of  Asia's  dead,  is  kindling,  like  the  rays 
Of  thy  rejoicing  sun,  when  first  his  smile 
Warms  the  Parnassian  rock,  and  gilds  the  Delian 
isle. 

CV. 

If  then  'tis  given  thee  to  arise  in  might. 
Trampling  the  scourge,  and  dashing  down  the 

chain. 

Pure  be  thy  triumphs,  as  thy  name  is  bright ! 
The  cross  of  victory  should  not  know  a  stain ! 
So  may  that  faith  once  more  supremely  reign. 
Through  which  we  lift  our  spirits  from  the  dust  t 
And  deem  not,  e'en  when  virtue  dies  in  vain, 
She  dies  forsaken ;  but  repose  our  trust 
On  Him  whose  ways  are  dark,  unsearchable — but 
just. 


NOTES 


NOTE  1. 

IV  Mt  hhmatl'i  bow,  Ift 

The  army  of  Mahomet  the  Second,  at  the  siege  of  Constantinople, 
was  threaded  with  tariatics  of  all  lecti  and  nation,  who  were  not 
enrolled  unonnt  the  rert  »r  troop*.  The  Sultan  himself  marched 
•poi  the  city  from  Adrianople ;  but  hit  army  muit  have  been  prin- 
npally  collected  in  the  Aiiatic  province*,  which  he  had  previously 
visited. 

NOTE  2. 

— —  Bring  urrru,  bring  odoun,  fc. 
Hoc  nna,  et  unnenta.  et  nimium  brevet 
Flora  arnccnz  (erre  jube  roue. 

Hor.  lib.  II.  od.  3 


NOTE  3. 

From  tht  Seven  Towtri,  Ift. 

The  Castle  of  the  Seven  Towers  is  mentioned  in  the  Brian!  o| 
history,  as  early  as  the  sixth  century  of  the  Christian  era,  as  an  edi 
fice  which  contributed  materially  to  the  defence  of  Constantinople, 
and  it  was  the  principal  bulwark  of  the  town  on  the  coast  of  tht 
Propontis,  in  the  latter  periods  of  the  empire.  For  a  detention  c 
this  building,  see  Pouqueeiilt't  Trcmlt. 

NOTE  4. 

With  itl  long  march  of  laptrtd  imagery. 
An  allusion  to  the  Roman  custom  of  carrying  in  profession,  at 
the  funerals  of  their  great  men,  the  images  of  their  ancestors. 

NOTE  5. 

Tht  Rfnman  out  hii  glittering  mail  away. 
The  following  was  the  ceremony  of  consecration  with  which  De- 
cius  devoted  himself  in  battle.  He  was  ordered  by  Valerius,  tht 
poutifex  maim, as,  to  quit  his  military  habit,  and  put  on  the  robe  bt 
wore  in  the  senate.  Valerius  then  covered  his  head  with  a  veil; 
commanded  bin  to  put  forh  his  hand  under  his  robe  to  his  chin, 
and  standing  with  both  feet  upon  a  javelin,  to  repeat  these  words : 
"O  Janus,  Jupiter,  Mars.  Romulus,  Bellona.  and  ye  Lares  and  No- 
vensiles  !  All  ye  heroes  who  dwell  in  heaven,  and  all  ye  gods  whc 
rule  over  us  and  our  enemies,  especially  ye  gods  of  hell !  I  honour 
you,  invoke  you,  and  humbly  entreat  you  to  prosper  the  arms  of  the 
Romans,  ana  to  transfer  all  fear  and  terror  from  them  to  their  ene- 
mies ;  and  I  do,  for  the  safety  of  the  Roman  people,  and  their 
legions,  devote  myself,  and  with  miself  the  army  and  auxiliaries  of 
the  enemy,  to  the  infernal  gods,  and  the  goddess  of  the  earth."  De- 
cius  then,  girding  his  robe  around  him,  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode 
full  speed  into  the  thickest  of  the  enemy's  battalions.  The  Latins 
were,  for  a  while,  thunderstruck  at  this  spectacle;  but  at  length 
recovering  themselves,  they  discharged  a  shower  of  darts,  under 
which  the  consul  fell. 

NOTE  6. 

Lo  !  Chrittian  ftnncmt  streammf 

Rid  o'er  the  10 ntcr i  !  ft. 

See  Gibbon's  animated  description  of  the  arrival  of  five  Christ.an 
ships,  with  men  and  provisions,  for  the  succour  of  the  besieged,  not 
many  days  before  the  fall  of  Constantinople.— Decline  and  Pull  of 
tht  Roman  Empire,  vol.  xii.  p.  215. 

NOTE  7. 

At  trtoi  tht  wind  hath  Mourn 

Crer  Indian  grovet,  Src. 

The  summit]  of  the  lofty  rocks  in  the  Carnatic,  particularly  about 
the  Ghauts,  are  sometimes  covered  with  the  bamboo  tree,  which 
grows  in  thick  clumps,  and  ra  nf  «nrh  uncommon  aridity,  that  in  tnt 
sultry  season  of  the  year  the  friction  occasioned  by  a  strong  dry 
wind  will  literally  produce  sparks  of  fire,  which  frequently  setting 
th«  woods  in  a  blase,  exhibit  to  the  spectator  stationed  i»  a  valley 
surrounded  by  rocks,  a  magnificent,  though  jnperfect  circle  of  nre. 
—ffota  to  Kindenley't  Sptcimmt  of  Hindoo  Literature. 

NOTE  8 

——  Tht  ntourv  crown 
Of  far  Olympus',  Irl. 

Those  who  steer  their  westward  course  through  the  middle  of  the 
Propontis  may  at  once  descry  the  high  lands  of  Thrace  awi  Bithy- 
nia,  and  never  lose  sight  of  the  lofty  summit  of  Muunt  Olympus, 
covered  with  eternal  snows.— Decline  and  Fall,  fc.  vol.  iii.  p.  8. 

NOTE  9. 

Mohammed1!  fact 

Kindla  beneath  their  atptct,  Itc. 

Mahomet  II.  was  greatly  addicted  to  the  study  of  astrology.  His 
calculations  in  this  science  led  him  to  fix  upon  the  morning  of  the 
29th  of  May  as  the  fortunate  hour  for  a  general  attack  upon  the  city 

NOTE  10. 

Thy  Georgian  Lridt,  $•<:. 

Constantine  Pileologus  was  betrothed  to  a  Georgian  princess; 
and  the  very  spring  which  witnessed  the  fail  of  Constantinople  had 
been  fixed  upon  as  the  time  for  conveying  the  imperial  bride  to  that 

o«r- 

NOTE  1L 

ThoK  men  art  ttrangen  hen. 

Many  of  the  adherents  of  Constantine,  iu  his  last  noble  stand  for 
the  liberties,  or  rather  the  honour,  of  a  falling  empire,  were  foreign 
en  and  chiefly  Italians. 

NOTE  12. 

fnno'lt  tfiriu  the  land,  +c. 

This  and  the  next  line  are  an  almost  literal  translation  from  a 
beautiful  song  of  Goeth^s : 

Kennst  du  das  land,  wo  die  xirronen  bluhn 
Mit  dunkeln  lanb  die  gold  orangen  gluhn  ?  fee. 

NOTE  13. 

The  Idea  expressed  in  this  stanza  is  beautifully  amplified  ia  Schil. 
lert  poem  "  Du  Lied  der  Glocke." 

NOTE  14. 

Bath  the  fierce  phantom,  iff. 

It  is  said  to  be  a  Greek  superstition  that  the  plague  is  announced 
by  UM  heavy  rolling  of  an  invisible  chariot,  heard  ia  the  streets  at 


REMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


midnight ;  and  also  by  the  appearance  of  a  gigantic  spectre,  who 
summons  the  devoted  person  by  name. 

NOTE  15. 

Ye  tmiled  on  banquets  of  dupair,  (ft. 

:h  banquets,  given  and  shared  by  persons 
'  'story      " 

.ble. 


resolved  upon  death,  might  be  adduced  from  ancient  history.'   That 
of  Vibius  Virius,  at  Capua,  is  amongst  the  most  un 


plo.-ei 


Fall, 


NOTE  16. 
Ton  dome,  the  lode-itar  of  all  eya. 


,  , 

the  construction  of  St.  Sophia,  see  The 
ol.  vii.  p.  120. 


NOTE  17. 

Nor  a  the  balmy  air  of  day-taring  torn 
With  battlt-ioundi,  l/c. 

The  assault  of  the  city  took  place  at  day-break,  and  the  Turks 
were  strictly  enjoined  to  advance  in  silence,  which  had  also  been 
commanded,  on  pain  of  death,  during  the  preceding  night.  This 
i  ircumstance  is  finely  alluded  to  by  Miss  Baillie,  in  her  tragedy  of 
<  omttntine  falxologus  : 

"Silent  shall  be  the  march:  nor  drum,  nor  trump, 

Nor  clash  of  arms,  shall  to  the  watchful  foe 

Our  near  approach  t  •Ann:  silent  and  soft, 

As  the  pard's  velve  foot  on  Libya's  sands, 

Slow  stealing  with  crouch'd  shoulders  on  her  prey." 

Camtantine  t'alaologia,  Act  iv. 

"  The  march  and  labour  of  thousands"  must,  however,  as  Gibbon 
observes,  "have  inevitably  produced  a  strange  confusion  of  dis- 
cordant clamours  ;  which  reached  the  ears  of  the  watchmen  on  the 
towers.** 

NOTE  18. 

——  Tin  dark-browed  ranks  are  riven. 

"After  a  conflict  of  two  hours,  the  Greeks  still  maintained  and 
^reserved  their  advantage,"  says  Gibbon.  The  strenuous  exertions 
if  the  Janizaries  first  tamed  the  fortune  of  the  dajr. 


NOTE  19. 

From  the  Greek  fire  shoots  up,  f*. 

"  A  circumstance  that  distinguishes  the  siege  of  Constantinople  ii 
the  reunion  of  the  ancient  and  modern  artillery.  The  bullet  and  the 
battering-ram  were  directed  aeainst  the  same  wall ;  nor  had  the  dis- 
covery of  gunpowder  superseded  the  use  of  the  liquid  and  'inextin- 
guishable fire.''— Decline  and  Fall,  «fc.,  vol.  xii.  p.  213. 

NOTE  20. 

And  stanch  the  llood-droil,  Genoa1!  fallen  ion  ! 
"The  immediate  loss  of  Constantinople  may  be  ascribed  to  the 
bullet,  or  arrow  which  pierced  the  gauntlet  of  John  Justiniana  (a 
Genoese  chief.)  The  sight  of  his  blood,  and  exquisite  pain,  appalled 
the  courage  of  the  chief,  whose  arms  and  counsels  were  the  firmest 
rampart  of  the  city." — Decline  and  Fall,  S,-c.,  vol.  xii.  p.  229. 

NOTE  21. 

The  owl  upon  .IfrnsiaL's  towers  hath  tung 
Her  watch-long,  fyc. 

Mahomet  II.,  on  entering,  after  his  victory,  the  palace  of  the  By- 
tantine  emperors,  was  strongly  impressed  withr  the  silence  and  deso- 
lation which  reigned  within  its  precincts.  "  A  melancholy  reflec- 
tion on  the  vicissitudes  of  human  greatness  forced  itself  on  hii 
mind,  and  he  repeated  an  elegant  distich  of  Persian  poetry  :  •  The 
spider  has  wove  his  web  in  the  imperial  palace,  and  the  owl  hath 
sung  her  watch-song  on  the  towers  of  Afrasiab  ' " — Decline  and 
Fall,  4c.,  vol.  xii.  p.  240. 

NOTE  22. 

The  bowl  of  liberty. 

One  of  the  ceremonies  by  which  the  battle  of  Flatxa  was  annuall; 
commemorated  was,  to  crown  with  wine  a  cup  called  the  Bowl  of 
liberty,  which  was  afterwards  poured  forth  in  libation. 

NOTE  23. 

In  th»  Comneni'i  hatti,  $e. 

The  Comneni  were  amongst  the  most  distinguished  of  the  Ami- 
des who  tilled  the  Byxantine  throne  in  the  declining  years  ol  Ins 
•astern  empire. 


THE   SIEGE   OF  VALENCIA 

I 

A   DRAMATIC    POEM. 


DRAMATIS    PERSONNEL 

ALTAR  GONZALEZ Governor  of  Valencia. 

ALPHONZO     ) 

> His  S-J71S. 

CARLOS        y 

HERNANDEZ A  Priest. 

I  A  Moorish  Chief. 

ABDULLAH < 

f    Army  besieging  Valencia. 

GAROIAS, A  Spanish  Knight. 

ELM  ix A Wife  to  Gonzalez. 

XIMBNA Her  Daughter. 

, An  Attendant. 

Citizens,  Soldiers,  Attendants,  ice. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


THE  history  of  Spain  records  two  instances  of  the  severe  and  self-devoting  heroism,  which  forms 
the  subject  of  the  following  dramatic  poem.  The  first  of  these  occurred  at  the  siege  of  Tarifa,  which 
was  defended  in  1294,  for  Sancho,  King  of  Castile,  daring  the  rebellion  of  his  brother,  Don  Juan,  by 
Guzman,  snrnamed  the  Good.*  The  second  is  related  of  Alonzo  Lopez  de  Texeda,  who,  until  his  gar- 
rison had  been  utterly  disabled  by  pestilence,  maintained  the  city  of  Zamora  for  the  children  of  Bon 
Pedro  the  Cruel,  against  the  forces  of  Henrique  of  Trastamara.f 

Impressive  as  were  the  circumstances  which  distinguished  both  these  memorable  sieges,  it  ap- 
peared to  the  author  of  the  following  pages,  that  a  deeper  interest,  as  well  as  a  stronger  colour  of 
nationality,  might  be  imparted  to  the  scenes  in  which  she  has  feebly  attempted  "to  describe  high 
passions  and  high  actions;"  by  connecting  a  religions  feeling  with  the  patriotism  and  high-minded 
loyalty  which  had  thus  been  proved  "  faithful  unto  death,"  and  by  surrounding  her  ideal  dramatis 
persona  with  recollections  derived  from  the  heroic  legends  of  Spanish  chivalry.  She  has,  for  this 
reason,  employed  the  agency  of  imaginary  characters,  and  fixed  upon  "Valencia  dd  Old"  as  the 
scene  to  give  them 

"A  local  habitation  and  a  name." 


•  8«e  QolnUni'i  '  Vidai  de  Esp»no!e«  eelebrt*,'  p.  •. 
t  »e«  tke  Preface  to  Southey '•  •  CbronloU  of  «k«  OH' 


THE 


SIEGE    OF  VALENCIA 


Scene — Room  in  a  Palace  of  Valencia. 
XIMENA  ringing  to  a  lute. 

BALLAD. 

•THOO  hast  not  been  with  a  festal  throng, 

At  the  pouring  of  the  wine; 
Men  hear  not  from  the  Hall  of  Song, 
A  mien  so  dark  as  thine  ! 
— There's  blood  upon  thy  shield, 
There's  dust  upon  thy  plume, 
—Thou  hast  brought  from  some  disastrous  field 
That  brow  of  wrath  and  gloom!" 

"  And  is  there  blood  upon  my  shield? 

— Maiden  '  it  well  may  bel 
We  have  sent  the  streams  from  our  battle-field, 
All  darken'd  to  the  sea  ! 
We  have  given  the  founts  a  stain, 
'Midst  their  woods  of  ancient  pine; 
And  the  ground  is  wet— but  not  with  rain, 
Deep-dyed—but  not  with  wine  ! 

"  The  ground  is  wet— but  not  with  rain— 

We  have  been  in  war  array. 
And  the  noblest  blood  of  Christian  Spain 
Hath  bathed  her  soil  to-day. 
I  have  seen  the  strong  man  die, 
And  thi:  stripling  meet  his  fate. 
Where  the  mountain-winds  go  sounding  by, 
In  the  Roncesvalles'  Strait. 

"  In  the  gloomy  Roncesvalles'  Strait 
There  are  helms  and  lances  cleft ; 
And  they  that  moved  at  morn  elate 
On  a  bed  of  heath  are  left ! 
There's  many  a  fair  young  face, 
Which  the  war-steed  hath  gone  o'er; 
At  many  a  board  there  is  kept  a  place 
For  those  that  come  no  more !" 

"Alas)  for  love,  for  woman's  breast, 

If  woe  like  this  must  be ! 
••Hast  thou  seen  a  youth  with  an  eagle  crest 
And  a  white  plume  waving  free? 
With  his  proud  quick-flashing  eye, 
And  his  mien  of  knightly  state  ? 
Doth  he  come  from  where  the  swords  flash'd  high, 
In  the  Roncesvalles'  Strait?" 

"In  the  gloomy  Roncesvalles'  Strait 

I  saw  and  mark'd  him  well ; 
For  nobly  on  his  steed  he  sate. 
When  the  pride  of  manhood  fell  1 
— But  it  is  not  youth  which  turns 
From  the  field  of  spears  again  ; 
For  the  boy's  high  heart  too  wildly  burns, 
Till  it  rests  amidst  the  slain  1" 


Thou  canst  not  say  that  he  liei  low, 
The  lovely  and  the  brave ; 
Oh!  none  could  look  on  his  joyous  brow. 
And  think  upon  the  grave  ! 
Dark,  dark  perchance  the  day 
Hath  been  with  valour's  fate, 
But  he  is  on  his  homeward  way. 
From  the  Roncesvalles'  Strait." 

"  There  is  dust  upon  his  joyous  brow, 

And  o'er  his  graceful  head  ; 
And  the  war-horse  will  not  wake  him  now, 
Though  it  bruise  his  greensward  bedl 
—I  have  seen  the  stripling  die. 
And  the  strong  man  meet  his  fate, 
Where  the  mountain-winds  go  sounding  by, 
In  the  Roncesvalles'  Strait  1" 

EI.MINA  enters. 
Elmin*.  Your  songs  are  not  like  those  of  other 

days. 

Mine  own  Ximena  1— Where  is  now  the  young 
And  buoyant  spirit  of  the  morn,  which  once 
Breath'd  in  your  spring-like  melodies,  and  woke 
Joy's  echo  from  all  hearts? 

Ximena.  My  mother,  this 

Is  not  the  free  air  of  our  mountain-wilds  ; 
And  these  are  not  the  halls,  wheiein  my  voice 
First  pour'd  those  gladdening  strains. 

Elmina.  Alas!  thy  heart 

(I  see  it  well)  doth  sicken  for  the  pure 
Free-wandering  breezes  of  the  joyous  hills. 
Where  thy  young  brothers,  o'er  the  rock  and  heath, 
Bound  in  glad  boyhood,  e'en  as  torrent -streams 
Leap  brightly  from  the  heights.    Had  we  not  been 
Within  these  walls  thus  suddenly  begi't, 
Thou  wouldst  have  track'd  ere  now,  with  step  as 

light, 
Their  wild  wood-paths. 

Ximena.  I  would  not  but  have  shared 

These  hours  of  woe  and  peril,  though  the  deep 
And  solemn  feelings  wakening  at  their  voice, 
Claim  all  the  wrought-up  spirit  to  themselves, 
And  will  not  blend  with  mirth.  The  storm  (ioU 

hush 

All  floating  whispery  sound,  all  bird-notes  wild 
O'  th'  summer  forest,  filling  earth  and  heaven 
With  its  own  awful  music.— And  'tis  well  1 
Should  not  a  hero's  child  be  train'd  to  hear 
The  trumpet's  blast  unstartled,  and  to  look 
In  the  fix'd  face  of  Death  without  dismay  ? 
Elmina.    Woe!  woe!  that  aught  so  gentle  and 

so  young 

Should  thus  be  call'd  to  stand  i'  the  tempest's  path, 
And  bear  the  token  and  the  hue  of  death 
On  a  bright  soul  so  soon!    I  had  not  shrunk 
From  mine  own  lot,  but  thou,  my  child,  bhouldst 

move 

As  a  light   breeze  of  heaven,  through   summer 
bowers, 

(103) 


104 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WOKKS. 


And  riot  o'er  foaming  billows.    We  are  fall'n 
On  dark  and  evil  days! 

Xiniena.  Ay,  days  that  wake 

All  to  their  tasks! — Youth  may  not  loiter  now 
In  the  green  walks  of  spring:  and  womanhood 
Is  summon' (1  unto  conflicts,  heretofore 
The  lot  of  warrior  souls.    But  we  will  take 
Our  toils  upon  us  nobly!    Strength  is  born 
In  the  deep  silence  of  long-suffering  hearts  ; 
Not  amidst  joy. 

Elmina.  Hast  thou  some  secret  woe, 

That  thus  thou  speak'st  ? 

Xiniena.  What  sorrow  should  be  mine 

Unknown  to  thee? 

Klmina.  Alas!  the  baleful  air 

Wherewith  the  pestilence  in  darkness  walks 
Through  the  devoted  city,  like  a  blight 
Amidst  the  rose-tints  of  thy  cheek  hath  fall'n, 
And   wrought  an  early  withering! — Thou   has 

cross'd 

The  paths  of  Death,  and  minister'd  to  those 
O'er  whom  his  shadow  rested,  till  thine  eye 
Hath  changed  its  glancing  sunbeam  for  a  still, 
Deep,  solemn  radiance,  and  thy  brow  hath  eaugli 
A  wild  and  high  expression,  which  at  times 
Fades  unto  desolate  calmness,  most  unlike 
What  youth's  bright  mien  should  wear.  My  gentle 

child ! 
I  look  on  thee  in  fear  I 

Ximciifi.  Thou  hast  no  cause 

To  fear  for  me.    When  the  wild  clash  of  steel, 
And  the  deep  tambour,  and  the  heavy  step. 
Of  armed  men,  break  on  our  morning  dreams, 
When,  hour  by  hour,  the  noble  and  the  brave 
Are  falling  round  us,  and  we  deem  it  much 
To  give  them  funeral  rites,  and  call  them  blest 
If  the  good  sword,  in  its  own  stormy  hour, 
Hath  done  its  work  upon  them,  ere  disease 
Had  chill'd  their  fiery  blood; — it  is  no  lime 
For  the  light  mien  wherewith,  in  happier  houri, 
We  trod  the  woodland  mazes,  when  young  leaves 
Were  whispering  in  the  gale. — My  Father  comes — 
Oh  !  speak  of  me  no  more.    I  would  not  shade 
His  princely  aspect  with  a  thought  less  high 
Than  his  proud  duties  claim. 

GONZALEZ  enters. 

Elmina.  My  'noble  lord ! 

Welcome  from  this  day's  toil !— It  is  the  hour 
Whose  shadows,  as  they  deepen,  bring  repose 
Unto  all  weary  men ;  and  wilt  not  thou 
Free  thy  mail'd  bosom  from  the  corselet's  weight, 
To  rest  at  fall  of  eve? 

Gonzalez.  There  may  be  rest 

For  the  tired  peasant  when  the  vesper-bell 
Doth  send  him  to  his  cabin,  and  beneath 
His  vine  and  olive  he  may  sit  at  eve, 
Watching  his  children's  sport:  but  unto  Aim 
Who  keeps   the   watch-place  on   the  mountain 

height, 
When  Heaven  lets  loose  the  storing  that  chasten 

realms 
— Who  speaks  of  rest  ? 

Ximena.  My  father,  shall  I  fill 

The  wine-cup  for  thy  lips,  or  bring  the  lute 
Whose  sounds  thou  loved  ? 

Omzalez.  If  there  be  strains  of  power 

To  rouse  a  spirit,  which  in  triumphant  scorn 
May  cast  off  nature's  feebleness,  and  hold 
Its  proud  career  unshackled,  dashing  down 
Tears  and  fond  thoughts  to  earth;  give  voice  to 

those  1 

I  have  need  of  such,  Ximena !  we  must  hear 
No  melting  music  now. 

Ximena.  I  know  all  high 

Heroic  ditties  of  the  elder  time, 
Sung  by  the  mountain-Christians,(l)  in  the  ho.ds 
Of  th'  everlasting  hills,  whose  snows  yet  hear 
The  print,  of  Freedom's  step;  and  all  wild  strains 
Wherein  the  dark  serranos*  teach  the  rocks 
And  the  pine  forests  deeply  to  resound 
Fhe  praise  of  later  champions.    Wouldstthou  hear 
The  war-sone  of  thine  ancestor,  the  Cid? 

Gonzalez.  Ay,  speak  of  him,  for  in  that  name  is 
power 

•  "Serrano*,"  mountaineers. 


Such  a*  might  rescue  kingdoms!   Speak  of  him! 
We  are  his  children  !  They  that  can  look  back 
I'  th'  nn  iiiils  of  their  house  on  such  a  name, 
How  should  they  take  dishonour  by  the  hand, 
And  o'er  the  threshold  of  their  fathers'  halls 
First  lead  her  as  a  guest  ? 

Elmina.  Oh,  why  this? 

How  my  heart  sinks! 

Gonzalez.  It  must  not  fail  thee  yet, 

Daughter  of  heroes! — thine  inheritance 
Is  strength  to  meet   all  conflicts.  Thou  canst 

number 

In  thy  long  line  of  glorious  ancestry 
Men,  the  bright  offering  of  whose  hlood  hath  made 
The  ground  it  bathed  e'en  as  an  altar  whence 
High  thoughts  shall  rise  forever.  Bore  they  not, 
'Midst  flame  and  sword,  their  witness  of  the  Cross, 
With  its  victorious  inspiration  girt 
As  with  a  conqueror's  robe,  till  th'  infidel 
O'erawed, shrank  back  beforethetn  ?—  Ay,  the  earth 
Doth  call  them  martyrs,  but  their  agonies 
Were  of  a  moment,  tortures  whose  brief  aim 
Was  to  destroy,  within  whose  powers  and  scope 
Lay  naught  but  dust— And  earth  doth  call  them. 

martyrs  ! 
Why,  Heaven  but  rlaim'd  their  blood,  their  lives, 

and  not 
The  things  which  grow  as  tendrils  round  their 

hearts ; 
No,  not  their  children  ! 

Elmina.      Mean'st  thou  ?— know'st  thou  aught  ? 
I  cannot  utter  it— My  sons !  my  sons ! 
Is  it  of  them  ? — Oh!  wouldst  thou  speak  of  them? 

Gonzalez.  A  mother^  heart  divi  net  h  but  too  well! 

Klmina.  Speak,  I  adjure  thee! — I  can  bear  it  all. 
—Where  are  my  children  ? 

Gonzalez.  In  the  Moorish  camp 

Whose  lines  have  girt  the  city. 

Ximena.  But  they  live? 

—All  is  not  lost  my  mother! 

Elmina.  Say.  they  live, 

Gonzalez.     Elmina,  still  they  live. 

Klmina.  But  captives !— They 

Whom  my  fond  heart  had  imaged  to  itself 
Bounding  from  cliff  to  cliff  amidst  the  wilds 
Where  the  rock-eagle  seenrd  not  more  secure 
In  its  rejoicing  freedom! — And  my  boys 
Are  captives  with  the  Moor!— Oh!  how  was  this! 

Gonzalez.  Alas!  our  brave  Alphonso,  in  the  pride 
Of  boyish  daring,  left  our  mountain-halls, 
With  his  young  brother,  eager  to  behold 
The  face  of  noble  war.    Thence  on  their  way 
Were  the  rash  wanderers  captured. 

Elmina.  'Tis  enough. 

— And  when  shall  they  be  ransomed  ? 

Gonzalez.  There  is  ask'd 

A  ransom  far  too  high. 

Elmina.  What !  have  we  wealth 

Which  might  redeem  a  monarch,  and  our  sons 
The  while  wear  fetters? — Take  thou  all  for  them 
And  we  will  cast  our  worthless  grandeur  from  us 
As  'twere  a  cumbrous  robe ! — Why,  thou  art  one 
To  whose  high  nature  pomp  hath  ever  been 
But  as  tlie  plumage  to  a  warrior's  helm, 
Worn  or  thrown  ofTas  lightly.     And  for  me, 
Thou  know'st  not  how  serenely  I  could  take 
The  peasant's  lot  upon  me,  so  my  heart, 
Amidst  its  deep  affections  undisturb'd, 
May  dwell  in  silence. 

Ximena.  Father  !  doubt  thou  not 

But  we  will  bind  ourselves  to  poverty, 
With  glad  devotedness,  if  this,  but  this, 
May  win  them  back.— Distrust  us  not,  my  fatber 
We  can  bear  all  things. 

Gonzalez.  Can  ye  bear  disgrace  ? 

Ximena.    We  were  not  born  for  this. 

Gonzalez.  No,  thou  sayest  well ! 

Hold  to  that  lofty  faith.— My  wife,  my  child! 
Hath  earth  no  treasures  richer  than  the  gems 
Torn  from  her  secret  caverns  ? — If  by  them 
Chains  may  be  riven,  then  let  the  captive  spring 
Rejoicing  to  the  light ! — But  he,  for  whom 
Freedom  and  life  may  but  be  worn  with  shame, 
Hath  naught  to  do,  save  fearlessly  to  fix 
His  steadfast  look  on  the  majestic  heavens. 
And  proudly  diel 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


105 


F.lmina.  Gonzalez,  wlio  must  dial 

Gonzalez  (hurriedly).  They  on  whose  lives  a  fear- 
ful price  is  set, 

But  to  be  paid  by  treason!— Is 't  enough? 
Or  must  I  yet  seek  words? 

Elmina.  That  look  suith  more  I 

Thou  canst  not  mean 

Gonzalez.  I  do  :  why  dwells  there  not 

Power  in  a  glance  to  speak  it  ? — They  must  die  I 
They — must  their  names  be  told — Our  sons  must  die 
Unless  I  yield  the  city ! 

Ximena.  Oh  Hookup  I 

My  mother,  sink  not  thus  !— Until  the  grave 
Shut  from  our  sight  its  victims,  there  is  hope. 

Elmina  (in  a  lo'"  voice.)  Whose  knell  was  in  the 
breeze ! 

— No,  no,  not  t\eirs ! 

Whose  was  the  blessed  voice  that  spoke  of  hope? 
— And  then;  is  hope  ! — I  will  not  be  subdued — 
I  will  not  hear  a  whisper  of  despair! 
For  Nature  is  al'-powerful,  and  her  breath 
Moves  like  a  quickening  spirit  o'er  the  depths 
Within  a  father's  heart. — Thou  loo,  Gonzalez, 
Wilt  tell  me  there  is  hope  ! 

Gonzalez  (solemnly.)  Hope  but  in  him 

Who  hade  the  patriarch  lay  his  fair  young  son 
Bound  on  the  shrine  of  sacrifice,  and  when 
The  bright  steel  quiver'd  in  the  father's  hand 
Just  raised  to  strike,  sent  fort))  his  awful  voice 
Through  the  still  clouds,  and  on  the  breathless  air. 
Commanding  to  withhold  !— Earth  has  no  hope: 
It  rests  with  him. 

F.lmina.  Thou  canst  not  tell  tne  this! 

Thou  father  of  my  sons,  within  whose  hands 
Doth  lie  thy  children's  fate. 

Gonzalez.  If  there  have  been 

Men  in  whose  bosoms  Nature's  voice  hath  made 
Its  accents  as  the  solitary  sound 
Of  an  o'erpowering  torrent,  silencing 
Th'  austere  and  yet  divine  remonstrances 
Whispered  by  faith  and  honour,  lift  thy  hands, 
And,  to  that  Heaven,  which  arms  the  brave  with 

strength. 

Pray  that  the  father  of  thy  sons  may  ne'er 
Be  thus  found  wanting  ! 

F.lmina.  Then  their  doom  is  sealed  I 

Thou  wilt  not  save  thy  children  ? 

Gonzalez.  Hast  thou  cause 

Wife  of  my  youth,  to  deem  it  lies  within 
The  bounds  of  possible  things,  that  I  should  link 
My  name  to  that  word — traitor?  They  that  sleep 
On  their  proud  battle-fields,  thy  sires  and  mine, 
Died  not  for  this  ! 

Rlmina.  Oh,  cold  and  hard  of  heart  I 

Thou  shouldst  be  born  for  empire,  since  thy  soul 
Thus  lightly  from  all  human  bonds  can  free 
Its  haughty  Might ! — Men!  men  !  too  much  is  yours 
Of  vantage ;  ye,  that  with  a  sound,  a  breath, 
A  shadow,  thus  can  fill  the  desolate  space 
Of  rooted-up  affections,  o'er  whose  void 
Our  yearning  hearts  must  wither! — So  it  is. 
Dominion  must  be  won  ! — Nay,  leave  me  not — 
My  heart  i«  bursting,  and  I  must  be  heard  I 
Heaven  hath  given  power  to  mortal  agony, 
As  to  the  elements  in  their  hour  of  might 
And  mastery  o'er  creation  !—  Who  shall  dare 
To  mock  that  fearful  strength  7— I  must  be  heard  ! 
Give  me  my  sons  ! 

Gonzalez.  That  Iliey  may  live  to  hide 

With  covering  hands  th'  indignant  flushof  shame 
On  their  young  brows,  when  men  shall  speak  of 

him 

They  called  their  father !  -Was  the  oath,  whereby, 
On  th'  altar  o  my  faith,  I  bound  myself, 
With  an  unswerving  spirit  to  maintain 
This  free  and  Christian  city  for  my  God 
And  for  my  king,  a  writing  traced  on  sand? 
That  passionate  tears   should  wash   it   from   the 

earth, 

Or  e'en  the  life-dropg  of  a  bleeding  heart 
Efface  it,  as  a  billow  sweeps  away 
The  last  light  vessel's  wake?— Then  never  more 
Let  man's  deep  vows  be  trusted  !— 'though  enforced 
By  all  th'  appeals  of  high  remembrances, 
And  silent  claims  o'  th'  sepulchres  wherein 
His  fathers  with  their  stainless  glory  sleep, 


On  their  good  swords!    Think  st  tliou  I  feel  no 

pangs  ? 

He  that  hath  given  me  sons,  doth  know  the  heart 
Whose  treasures  he  recalls. — Of  this  no  more. 
'Tis  vain.     I  tell  thee  that  th'  inviolate  cross 
Still,  from  our  ancient  temples,  must  look  up 
Through  the  blue  heavens  of  Spain,  though  at  its 

foot 

I  perish,  with  my  race.    Thou  darest  not  ask 
That  I,  the  son  of  warriors — meu  who  died 
To  fix  it  on  that  proud  supremacy — 
Should  tear  the  sign  of  our  victorious  faith 
From  its  high  place  of  sunbeams,  for  the  Moor 
In  impious  joy  to  trample! 

Ktmiwa.  Scorn  me  not ! 

In  mine  extreme  of  misery  ! — Thou  art  strong — 
Thy  heart  is  riot  as  mine.     My  brain  grows  wild 
I  know  not  what  I  ask ! — And  yet  'twere  but 
Anticipating  fate— since  it  must  fall, 
That  cross  must  fall  at  last !    There  is  no  power, 
No  hope  within  this  city  of  the  grave, 
To  keep  its  place  on  high.    Her  sultry  air 
Breathes  heavily  of  death,  her  warriors  sink 
Beneath  their  ancient  banners,  ere  the  Moor 
Hath  bent  his  bow  against  them  ;  for  rtie  shaft 
Of  pestilence  flies  more  swiftly  to  its  mark. 
Than  the  arrow  of  the  desert.     Ev'n  the  skies 
O'erhang  the  desolate  splendour  of  her  domes 
With  an  ill  omen's  aspect,  shaping  forth, 
From  the  dull  clouds,  wild  menacing  forms  and 

signs 

Foreboding  ruin.    Man  might  be  withstood, 
But  who  shall  cope  with  famine  and  disease, 
When  leagued  with  armed  foes! — Where  now  the 

aid, 

Where  the  long-promised  lances  of  Castile? 
— We  are  forsaken,  in  our  utmost  need, 
By  heaven  and  eartli  forsaken  I 

Gonzalez.  If  this  be, 

(And  yet  I  will  not  deem  it)  we  must  fall 
As  men  that  in  severe  devotedness 
Have  chosen  their  part  and  bound  themselves  to 

rienth. 

Through  high  conviction  that  their  suffering  land, 
liy  the  free  blood  of  martyrdom  alone, 
Shall  call  deliverance  down. 

Klmina.  Oh !  I  have  stood 

Beside  thee  through  the  beating  storms  of  life, 
With  the  true  heart  of  unrepining  love, 
As  the  poor  peasant's  mate  doth  cheerily 
In  the  parch'd  vineyard,  or  the  harvest-field, 
Bearing  her  part,  sustain  with  him  the  heat 
And  burden  of  the  day.    But  now  the  hour, 
The  heavy  hour  is  come,  when  human  strength 
Sinks  down,  a  toil-worn  pilgrim,  in  the  dust, 
Owning  that  woe  is  mightier  ! — Spare  me  yet 
This  bitter  cup,  my  husband! — Let  not  her, 
The  mother  of  the  lovely,  sit  and  mourn 
In  her  unpeopled  home,  a  broken  stem, 
O'er  its  fallen  roses  dying  ! 

Gonzalez.  Urge  me  not, 

Thou  that  through  all  sharp  conflicts  hast  been 

found 

Worthy  a  brave  man's  love,  oh !  urge  me  not 
To  guilt,    which,  through   the   mist  of   blinding 

tears, 

In  its  own  hues  thou  seest  not ! — Death  may  scares 
Bring  aught  like  this! 

Elmina.  All,  all  thy  gentle  race, 

The  beautiful  beings  that  around  thee  grew. 
Creatures  of  sunshine  !  Wilt  thou  doom  tne  in  all  ? 
— She,  too,  thy  daughter — doth  her  smile  unmark'd 
Pass  from  thee,  with  its  radiance,  day  by  day  ? 
Shadows  are  gathering  round  her — seest  thou  not! 
The  misty  dimness  of  the  spoiler's  breath 
Hangs  o'er  her  beauty,  and  the  face  which  made 
The  summer  of  our  hearts,  now  doth  but  send, 
With  every  glance,  deep  bodings  through  the  »••  I. 
Telling  of  early  fate. 

Gonzalez.  I  see  a  change 

Far  nobler  on  her  brow !— She  is  as  one, 
Who,  at  the  trumpet's  sudden  call,  hath  risen 
From  the  gay  banquet,  and  in  scorn  cast  dow« 
The  wine-cup,  and  the  garland,  and  the  lute, 
Of  festal  hours,  for  the  good  spear  and  helm, 
Beseeming  sterner  tasks. r-Her  eye  hath  lust 


106 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Tne    oeam   \vnicn  laughed   upon    tli'  awakening 

heart, 

E'en  a--  morn  breaks  o'er  earth.     But  fir  within 
Its  full  dark  orb,  a  light  hath  sprung,  whose  source 
Lies  deeper  in  the  soul. —  And  let  the  torch 
Which  but  illumed  the  glittering  pageant,  fade  I 
The  altar-flame,  i'  th'  sanctuary's  recess, 
Burns  quenchless,   being  of  heaven  '.—She  hath 

put  on 

Courage,  and  faith,  and  generous  constancy. 
Ev'n  as  a  breastplate. — Ay,  men  look  on  her, 
As  she  goes  forth  serenely  to  her  tasks, 
Binding  the  warrior's  wounds,  and  bearing  fresh 
Cool  draughts  to  fevered  lips;  they  look  on  her, 
Thus  moving  in  her  beautiful  array 
Of  gentle  fortitude,  and  bless  the  fair 
Majestic  vision,  and  unmurmuring  turn 
Unto  their  heavy  toils. 

HI min a.  And  seest  thou  not 

[n  that  high  faith  and  strong  collectedness, 
A  f. -arf.il  inspiration  ? — They  have  cause 
To  tremble,  who  behold  th'  unearthly  light 
Of  high,  and,  it  may  be,  prophetic  thought. 
Investing  youth  with  grandeur! — From  the  grave 
It  rises  <MI  whose  shadowy  brink  thy  child 
Waits  but  a  father's  hand  to  snatch  her  back 
Into  the  laughing  sunshine. — Kneel  with  me, 
Xi'nena.  kneel  beside  inc.  and  implore 
Th.il  which  a  deeper,  more  prevailing  voice 
Than  ours  doth  ask,  and  will  not  be  denied; 
— His  children's  lives ! 

Xiiitena,.  Alas  !  this  may  not  be, 

Mother  !— I  cannot.  [Exit  XIMBNA. 

Gonzalez.  My  heroic  child  ! 

— A  terrible  sacrifice  thou  claim'st,  O  Godl 
From  creatures  in  whose  agonizing  hearts 
Nature  is  strong  as  death. 

Elmina.  Is't  thus  in  thine? 

Away  ! — what  time  is  given  thee  to  resolve 
On  ? — what  I  cannot  utter! — Speak!  thou  know'st 
Too  well  what  I  would  say. 

Gonzalez.  Until — ask  not! 

The  time  is  brief. 

Elmina.  Thou  said'st— I  heard  not  right— 

Gonzalez.    The  time  is  brief. 

Elmina.  What !  must  we  burst  all  ties 

Wherewith  the  thrilling;  chords  of  lift;  are  twined; 
And,  for  this  task's  fulfilment,  can  it  be 
That  man,  in  his  cold  heartlessness,  hath  dared 
To  number  and  to  mete  us  forth  the  sands 
Of  hours,  nay,   moments  ?— Why,  the  sentenced 

wretch. 

He  on  whose  soul  there  rests  a  brother's  blood 
Ponied  forth  in  slumber,  is  allowed  more  time 
To  wean  his  turbulent  passions  from  the  world 
His  presence  doth  pollute ! — It  is  not  thus  I 
We  must  have  time  to  school  us. 

Gonzalez,  We  have  but 

To  bow  the  head  in  silence,  when  Heaven's  voice 
Calls  back  the  things  we  love. 

Elmina.    Love!    Love!— there  are  soft  smiles 

and  gentle  words, 

And  there  are  faces,  skilful  to  put  on 
The  look  we  trust  in— and  'tis  mockery  all ! 
—A  faithless  mist,  a  desert-vapour,  wearing 
The  brightness  of  clear  waters,  thus  to  cheat 
The  thirst  that  semblance  kindled  !— There  is  none 
In  all  this  cold  and  hollow  world,  no  fount 
Of  deep,  strong,  deathless  love,  save  that  within 
A  mother's  heart.— It  is  but  pride,  wherewith 
To  his  fair  son  the  father's  eye  doth  turn 
Watching  his  growth.     Ay,  o«  the  boy  he  looks, 
The  bright  glad  creature  springing  in  his  path, 
But  as  the  heir  of  his  great  name,  the  young 
And  stately  tree,  whose  rising  strength  ere  long 
Shall  bear  his  trophies  well.— And  this  is  love  ! 
This  is  man's  love ! — What   marvel  ? — you  ne'er 

made 

Your  breast  the  pillow  of  his  infancy. 
While  to  the  fullness  of  your  heart's  glad  heaving* 
Ms  t";iir  cheek  rose  and  Ml;  and  hie  bright  hair 
Waved   softly   to   your   breast! — You    ne'er   kept 

wafh 

B^sMe  him   till  the  last  pale  star  had  set. 
And  tnorn.  all  dazzling,  as  in  triumph   broke 
On  your  dim  weary  eye;  not  i/aurg  the  face 


Which  early  fnriet!  through  tonn  care  tor  nun. 
Hung  o'er  bis  sleep,  and  duly  as  Heaven's  iiglit. 
Was   there   to  greet   his   wakening!     You   ne'er 

smoothed 

His  couch,  ne'er  sung  him  to  his  rosy  rest, 
Caught  his  least  whisper,  when  his  voice  from  yours 
Had  learned  soft  utterance  ;  pressed  your  lips  to  his 
When  fever  parched  it ;  hushed  his  wayward  cries. 
With  patient,  vigilant,  never-wearied  love! 
No  I  these  are  woman's  tasks  ! — In  these  her  youth. 
And  bloom  of  cheek,  and  buoyancy  of  heart. 
Steal  from  her  all  unmarked  !— My  boys !  my  boys  \ 
Hath  vain  affection  borne  with  all  for  this? 
— Why  were  ye  given  me  ? 

Gonzalez.  Is  there  strength  in  man 

Thus  to  endure  ?— That  thou  couldst  read,  thro'  all 
Its  depths  of  silent  agony,  the  heart 
Thy  voice  of  woe  doth  rend  ! 

Elmina.  Thy  heart  \-thy  heart !— Away !  it  feels 

not  now! 

But  an  hour  comes  to  tame  the  mighty  man 
Unto  th>-  infant's  weakness;  nor  shall  Heaven 
Hpart-  yon  that  bitter  chastening!— May  you  live 
To  b»  alone,  when  loneliness  doth  seem 
Most  hi-Hvv  to  sustain  !— F»r  me,  my  voice 
Of  pravi-r  and  fruitless  weeping  shall  be  soon 
With  all  forgotten  sounds;  my  quiet  place 
Low  with  my  lovely  ones,  and  we  shall  sleep, 
Though  kinpf  li-ad  armies  o'er  us ;  we  shall  sleep. 
Wrapt  in?  earth's  covering  mantle!  you  the  while 
Shall  sit  within  your  vast,  forsaken  halls. 
And  hear  the  wild  and  melancholy  winds 
Moan  through  their  drooping  banners,  never  mnre 
To  wave  above  your  race.    Ay.  then  call  up 
Shadows— dim  phantoms  from  ancestral  tombs, 
But  all— all  glorious— conquerors,  chieftains,  kinas 
—To   people    that  cold   void!— And    when    the 

strength 

From  your  rieht  arm  hath  melted,  when  the  blast 
Of  the  shrill  clarion  gives  your  heart  no  more 
A  fiery  wakening;  if  at  last  you  pine 
For  trie  gla-1  voices,  and  the  bounding  steps, 
Once  through  vour  home  re-echoing,  and  the  clasp 
Of  twining  arm.-   and  an  the  joyous  light 
Of  eyes  that  laugh'd  with  youth,  and  made  your 

board 

A  place  of  sunshine; — When  those  days  are  come, 
Then,  in  your  utter  desolation,  turn 
To  the  cold  world,  the  smiling,  faithless  world. 
Which  hath  swept  past  you  long,  and  bid  it  qitenck 
Your  soul's  deep  thirst  with  fame  '.  immortal  fame . 
Fame  to  the  sick  of  heart! — a  gorgeous  robe, 
A  crown  of  victory,  unto  him  that  dies 
I'  th'  burning  waste,  for  water  I 

Gonzalez.  This  from  thee  , 

Now  the  last  drop  of  bitterness  is  pour'd. 
Elmina — I  forgive  thee!  \Kiit  ELMINA. 

Aid  me.  Heaven  ! 

From  whom  alone  is  power! — Oh!  thou  hast  set 
Duties,  so  stern  of  aspect,  in  my  path. 
They  almost,  to  my  startled  gaze,  assume 
The  hue  of  things  less  hallow'd  !    Men  have  sunk 
Unblamed  beneath  such  trials! — Doth  not  He 
Who  made  us,  know  the  limits  of  our  strength? 
My  wife!  my  sons! — Away!  I  must  not  pause 
To  give  my  heart  one  moment's  mastery  thus! 

[Exit  GONZALEZ. 

Scene—  T/ie  Jiisle  of  a  Gothic  Church. 
HERNANDEZ,  GARCIAS,  and  others. 

Hernandez.    The  rites  are  closed.    Now,  valiant 

men,  depart, 

Each  to  his  place — I  may  not  say,  of  rest ; 
Your  faithful  vigils  for  your  sons  may  win 
What  must  not  be  your  own.    Ye  are  as  those 
Who  sow,  in  peril  and  ir  care,  the  seed 
Of  the  fair  tree,  beneath  whose  stately  shade 
They  may  not  sit.     But  bless'd  be  they  who  toil 
For  after-days! — All  high  and  holy  thoughts 
Be  with  you,  warriors,  thro'  the  lingering  hours 
Of  the  night-watch  I 

Oarcias.  Ay,  father  !  we  have  neev 

Of  high  and  holy  thoughts,  wherewith  to  fence 
Our  hearts  against  despair.     Yet  have  1  been 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


107 


From  youth  a  son  of  war.    The  stars  have  look'd 
A  thousand  times  upon  my  couch  of  health, 
Spread  'midst  the  wild  sierras,  by  some  stream 
Whose  dark-red  waves  look'd  e'en  as  though  tbeir 

source 

Lay  not  in  rocky  caverns,  but  the  veins 
Of  noble  hearts  ;  while  many  a  nightly  crest 
Roll'd  with  them  to  the  deep.     And  in  the  year* 
Of  my  long  exile  and  captivity, 
With  the  fierce  Arab,  1  have  watch'd  beneath 
The  still  pale  shadow  of  some  lonely  palm, 
At  midnight,  in  the  desert;  while  the  wind 
Swell'd  with  the  lion's  roar,  and  heavily 
The  fearfulness  and  might  of  solitude 
Press'd  on  my  weary  heart. 

Hernandez  (thoughtfully.}    Thou  little  know'lt 
Of  what  is  solitude! — I  tell  thee,  those 
For  whom— in  earth's  remotest  nook — howe'er 
Divided  from  their  path  by  chain  on  chain 
Of  mighty  mountains,  and  the  amplitude 
Of  rolling  seas— there  heats  one  human  heart, 
There  lireathes  one  being  unto  whom  their  name 
Comes  with  a  thrilling  and  a  gladdening  sound, 
Heard  o'er  the  din  of  life  !  are  not  alone  I 
Not  on  the  deep,  nor  in  the  wild,  alone  ; 
For  there  is  that  on  earth  with  which  they  hold 
A  brotherhood  of  soul ! — Call  him  alone. 
Who  stands  shut  out  from  this ! — And  let  not  thoie 
Whose  homes  are  bright  with  sunshine  and  with 

love, 

Put  on  the  insolence  of  happiness, 
Glorying  in  that  proud  lot !— A  lonely  hour 
Is  on  its  way  to  each,  to  all ;  for  Death 
Knows  no  companionship. 

Oarcias.  I  have  look'd  on  Death 

In  field,  and  storm,  arid  flood.     But  never  yet 
Hath  aught  weigh'd  down  my  spirit  to  a  mood 
Of  sadness,  dreaming  o'er  dark  auguries, 
Like  this,  our  watch  by  midnight.    Fearful  things 
Are  gathering  round  us.     Death  upon  the  earth. 
Omens  in  Heaven  ! — The  summer-skies  put  forth 
No  cleat  bright  stars  above  us,  but  at  times, 
Catching  some  comet's  fiery  hue  of  wrath, 
Marshal  their  ciouds  to  armies,  traversing 
Heaven  with  the  rush  of  meteor  steeds,  the  array 
Of  spears  and  banners,  tossing  like  the  pines 
Of  Pyrenean  forests,  when  the  storm 
!>ntli  sweep  the  mountains. 

Hernandez.  Ay,  last  night,  I  too 

Kept  vigil,  cazing  on  the  angry  heavens; 
And  (  b  'held  the  meeting  and  the  shock 
Of  those  wild  hosts  i'  th'  air,  when  as  they  closed, 
A  re<l  anil  sultry  mist,  like  that  which  mantles 
The  thunder's  path,  fell  o'er  them.    Then  were 

flung 

Through  the  dull  glare,  broad  cloudy  banners  forth. 
And  chariots  seem'd  to  whirl,  and  steeds  to  sink, 
Bearing  down  crested  warriors.     But  all  this 
Was   dim    and   shadowy; — then    swift    darkness 

nwh'd 

Down  on  th'  unearthly  battle,  as  the  deep 
Swept  o'er  the  Egyptian's  armament. — I  look'd — 
And  all  that  fiery  field  of  plumes  and  spears 
Was  blotted  from  heaven's  face! — I  look'd  again 
— And  from  the  brooding  mass  of  clouds  leap'd 

forth 

One  meteor  sword,  which  o'er  the  reddening  sea 
Shook  with  strange  motion,  such  as  earthquakes 

give 

Unto  a  rocking  citadel !— I  beheld, 
And  yet  my  spirit  sunk  not. 

Oarcias.  Neither  deem 

That  mine  hath  blench'd.— But  these  are  sights 

and  sounds 

To  awe  the  firmest. — Know'st  thou  what  we  hear 
At  midni'.'ht  from  the  walls  ? — Were't  hut  the  deep 
Barbaric  horn  or  Moorish  tambour's  peal. 
Thence  might  the  warrior's  heart  catch  impulses. 
Quickening  its  fiery  currents.     But  our  ears 
Are  pierced  by  other  tones.    We  hear  the  knell 
For  brave  men  in  their  noon  of  strength  cut  down, 
And  the  shrill  wail  of  woman,  and  the  dirge 
Faint  swelling  through  the  streets.  Then  e'en  the 

air 

Hath  strange  and  fitful  murmurs  of  lament, 
As  if  the  viewless  watchers  of  the  land 


Sigh'd  on  its  hollow  breezes! — To  my  soul, 
The  torrent-rush  of  battle,  with  its  din 
Of  trampling  steeds  and  ringing  panoply 
Were,  after  these  faint  sounds  of  drooping  woe, 
As  the  free  sky's  glad  music  unto  him 
Who  leaves  a  couch  of  sickness. 

Hernandez  (with  solemnity.)      If  to  plunge 
In  the  mid-waves  of  combat,  as  they  hear 
Chargers  and  spearmen  onwards;  and  to  make 
A  reckless  bosom's  front  the  buoyant  mark 
On  that  wild  current,  for  ten  thousand  arrows; 
If  thus  to  dare  were  valour's  noblest  aim, 
Lightly  might  fame  be  won ! — but  there  are  thingi 
Which  ask  a  spirit  of  more  exalted  pitch. 
And  courage  temper'd  with  a  holier  fire! 
Well  may'st  thou  say,  that  these  are  tearful  times 
Therefore  be  firm,  be  patient ! — There  is  strength 
Anil  a  fierce  instinct,  e'en  in  common  souls, 
To  bear  up  manhood  with  a  stormy  joy. 
When  red  swords  meet  in  lightning  ! — but  our  task 
Is  more,  and  nobler ! — We  have  to  endure, 
And  to  keep  watch,  and  to  arouse  a  land, 
And  to  defend  an  altar! — If  we  fall, 
So  that  our  blo.,d  make  but  the  millionth  part 
Of  Spain's  great  ransom,  we  may  count  it  joy 
To  die  upon  her  bosom,  and  beneath 
The  banner  of  her  faith!— Think  but  on  this, 
And  gird  your  hearts  with  silent  fortitude, 
Suffering,  yet  hoping  all  things — Fare  ye  well. 

Oarcias.    Father,  farewell.       f  Exeunt,  GARCIAI 
and  his  followers. 

Hernandez.  These  men  have  earthly  tiet 

And  bondage  on  their  natures  ! — To  the  cause 
Of  God,  and  Spain's  revenge,  they  bring  but  half 
Their  energies  and  hopes.     But  he  whom  Heaven 
Hath  called  to  be  th'awakener  of  a  land, 
Should  have  his  soul's  affections  all  ahsorb'd 
In  that  majestic  purpose,  and  press  on 
To  its  fulfilment,  as  a  mountain-born 
And  miehty  stream,  with  all  its  vassal  rills 
Sweeps  proudly  to  the  ocean,  pausing  not 
To  dally  with  the  flowers. 

Hark  !  what  quick  step 

Comes  hurrying  through  the  gloom  at  this  dead 
hour? 

ELMINA  enters 

Elmina.    Are  not  all  hours  as  one  to  misery  ?- 

Why 

Should  she  take  note  of  time,  for  whom  the  day 
And  night  have  lost  their  blessed  attributes 
Of  sunshine  and  repose  ? 

Hernandez.  I  know  thy  griefs; 

But  there  are  trials  for  the  noble  heart 
Wherein  its  own  deep  fountains  must  supply 
All  it  can  hope  of  comfort.     Pity's  voice 
Comes  with  vain  sweetness  to  th'  unheeding  eai 
Of  anguish,  e'en  as  music  heard  afar 
On  the  green  shore,  by  him  who  perishes 
'Midst  rocks  and  eddying  waters. 

K/mina.  Think  thou  not 

[  sought  thee  but  for  pity.     I  am  come 
For  that  which  grief  is  privileged  to  demand 
With  an  imperious  claim,  from  all  whose  form. 
Whose  human  form,  doth  seal  them  unto  suffering , 
Father!  1  ask  thine  aid. 

Hernandez.  There  is  no  aid 

For  thee  or  for  thy  children,  but  with  Him 
Whose  presence  is  around  us  in  the  cloud. 
As  in  the  shining  and  the  glorious  light. 

Elmina.    There  is  no  aid ! — Art  thou  a  man  of 

God? 

Art  thou  a  man  of  sorrow,  ^or  the  world 
Doth  call  thee  such)  and  hast  thou  not  been  taught 
By  God  and  sorrow — mighty  as  they  are, 
To  own  the  claims  of  misery  ? 

Hernandez.  Is  there  power 

With  me  to  save  thy  sons  ? — Implore  of  Heaven ' 

Elmina.   Doth  not  Heaven  work  its  purposes  by 

man  ? 

I  tell  thee  thou  canst  save  them  !— Art  thou  not 
Gonzalez'  counsellor? — Unto  him  thy  words 
Are  e'en  as  oraclea 

Hernandez.  And  therefore  ?— Speak 

The  noble  daughter  of  Pelayo's  line 


108 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Hath  naught  to  ask,  unworthy  of  the  name 
Which  is  a  nation's  heritage. — Dost  thou  shrink? 

Elmina.  Have  pity  on  me,  father !— I  must  speak 
That,  from  the  thought  of  which,  but  yesterday, 
I  had  recoil'd  in  scorn  ! — But  this  is  past. 
Oh  !  we  grow  humble  in  our  agonies, 
And  to  the  dust— their  birth-place—bow  the  heads 
That  wore  the  crown  of  glory ! — I  am  weak — 
My  chastening  is  far  more  than  I  can  bear. 

Hernandez.    These  are  no  times  for  weakness. 

On  our  hills, 

The  ancient  cedars,  in  their  gather'd  might, 
Are  battling  with  the  tempest;  and  the  flower 
Which  cannot  meet  its  driving  blast  must  die. 
— But  thou  hast  drawn  thy  nurture  from  a  stem 
Unwont  to  bend  or  break — Lift  thy  proud  head, 
Daughter  of  Spain ! — What  wouldst  thou  with  thy 
lord? 

Elmina.    Look  not  upon  me  thus ! — I  have  no 

power 

To  tell  thee.    Take  thy  keen  disdainful  eye 
Off  from  my  soul ! — What!  am  I  sunk  to  this? 
I,   whose   blood  sprung  from   heroes ! — How  my 

sotis 

Will  scorn  the  mother  that  would  brin^  disgrace 
On  their  majestic  line! — My  sons!  my  sons! 
— Now  is  all  else  forgotten  ! — I  had  once 
A  babe  that  in  the  early  spring-time  lay 
Sickening  upon  my  bosom,  till  at  last. 
When  earth's  young  flowers  were  opening  to  the 

sun. 

Death  sunk  on  his  meek  eyelid,  and  I  deem'd 
All  sorrow  light  to  mine! — But  now  the  fate 
Of  all  my  children  seems  to  brood  above  me 
In  the  dark  thunder-clouds  ! — Oh!  I  Jiave  power 
And  voice  unfaltering  now  to  speak  my  prayer, 
And  my  last  lingering  hope  that  thou  shouldst  win 
The  father  to  relent,  to  save  his  sons! 

Hernandez.  By  yielding  up  the  city  ? 

Elmina.     Rather  say, 

By  meeting  that  which  gathers  close  upon  us 
Perchance  one  day  the  sooner ! — Is't  not  so? 
Must  we  not  yield  at  last  ? — How  long  shall  man 
Array  his  single  breast  against  disease, 
And  famine,  and  the  sword  ? 

Hernandez.  How  long?— While  he. 

Who  shadows  forth  his  power  more  gloriously 
In  the  high  deeds  and  sufferings  of  the  soul, 
Than  in  the  circling  heavens,  with  all  their  stars, 
Or  the  far-sounding  deep,  doth  send  abroad 
A  spirit,  which  takes  affliction  for  its  mate, 
In  the  good  cause,  with  solemn  joy  ! — How  long? 
— And  who  art  thou,  that,  in  the  littleness 
Of  thine  own  selfish  purpose,  would'st  set  bounds 
To  the  free  current  of  all  noble  thought 
And  generous  action,  bidding  its  bright  waves 
Be  stay'd,  and  flow  no  further? — But  the  Power 
Whose  interdict  is  laid  on  seas  and  orbs, 
To  chain  them  in  from  wandering,  hath  assign'd 
No  limits  unto  that  which  man's  high  strength 
Shall,  through  its  aid,  achieve  ! 

Elmina.  Oh  !  there  are  times, 

When  all  that  hopeless  courage  can  achieve 
But  sheds  a  mournful  beauty  o'er  the  fate 
Of  those  who  die  in  vain. 

Hernandez.  Who  dies  in  vain 

Upon  his  country's  war-fields,  and  within 
The  shadow  of  her  altars  ? — Feeble  heart ! 
I  tell  thee  that  the  voice  of  noble  blood, 
Thus  pour'd  for  faith  and  freedom,  hath  a  tone 
Which  from  the  night  of  ages,  from  the  gulf 
Of  death  shall  burst,  and  make  its  high  appeal 
Pound  unto  earth  and  heaven  !     Ay,  let  the  land, 
Whose  sons  through  centuries  of  woe  have  striven 
And  perish'd  by  her  temples,  sink  awhile, 
Borne  down  in  conflict ! — But  immortal  seed 
Deep,  hv  heroic  suffering,  hath  been  sown 
On  nil  h'T  ancient  hills;  and  generous  hope 
Knows  that  the  soil,  in  its  good  time,  shall  yet 
Rritisr  forth  a  glorious  harvest ! — Earth  receives 
Not  one  red  drop  from  faithful  hearts  in  vain. 

Elminii.    Then  it  must  be  !    And  ye  will  make 

those  lives, 

Those  young  bright  lives,  an  offering,  to  retard 
Our  doom  one  day  ! 


Hernandez.  The  mantle  of  that  day 

May  wrap  the  fate  of  Spain  ! 

Elmina.  What  led  me  here  ? 

Why  did  I  turn  to  thee  in  my  despair? 
Love  hath  no  ties  upon  thee ;  what  had  I 
To  hope  from  tkee,  thou  lone  and  childless  man? 
Go  to  thy  silent  home! — there  no  young  voice 
Shall  bill  thee  welcome,  no  light  footstep  spring 
Forth  at  the  sound  of  thine !— What  knows  thy 

heart? 
Hernandez.   Woman  !  how  dar'st  thou  taunt  me 

with  my  woes? 

Thy  children  too  shall  perish,  and  I  say 
It  shall  be  well !— Why  tak'st  thou  thought  for 

them  ? 

Wearing  thy  heart,  and  wasting  down  thy  life 
Unto  its  dregs,  and  making  night  thy  time 
Of  care  yet  more  intense,  and  casting  health, 
tlnpriz'd  to  melt  away,  i'  th'  bitter  cup 
Thou  minglest  for  thyself !— Why,  what  hath  earth 
To  pay  thee  back  for  this  ?— Shall  they  not  live, 
(Tf  the  sword  spare  them  now)  to  prove  how  soon 
All  love  may  be  forgotten  ?    Years  of  thought, 
T.onff  faithful  watchings,  looks  of  tenderness, 
That  changed  not,  though  to  change  be  this  world's 

law? 
Shall  they  not  flush  thy  cheeks  with  shame,  whose 

blood 

Marks,  e'en  like  branding  iron  ?— to  thy  sick  heart 
Make  death  a  want,  as  sleep  to  weariness  ? 
Doth  not  all  hope  end  thus?— or  e'en  at  best, 
Will  they   not   leave  thee?— far  from  thee  seek 

room 

For  th'  overflowings  of  their  fiery  souls. 
On  life's  wide  ocean?— Give  the  bounding  steed. 
Or  the  wing'd  bark  to  youth,  that  his  free  course 
May  be  o'er  hills  and  seas;  and  weep  thou  not 
In  thy  forsaken  home,  for  the  bright  worid 
Lies  all  before  him,  and  be  sure  he  wastes 
No  thought  on  thee? 

Elmina.  Not  so  !  it  is  not  so  ! 

Thou  dost  but  torture  me  !— My  sons  are  kind, 
And  firavp.  and  gentle. 

Hernandez.  Others  too  have  worn 

The  semblance  of  all  good.    Nay,  stay  thee  yet  : 
I  will  be  calm,  and  thou  shall  learn  how  earth, 
The  fruitful  in  all  agonies,  hath  woes 
Which  far  outweigh  thine  own. 

Elmina.  It  may  not  be — 

Whose  grief  is  like  a  mother's  for  her  sons? 
Hernandez.    My  son  lay  stretch'd  upon  his  bat- 
tle-bier. 
And  there  were  hands  wrung  o'er  him,  which  had 

caught 
Their  hue  from  his  young  blood  ! 

Elmina.  What  tale  is  this? 

Hernandez.  Read  you  no  records  in  this  mien, 

of  things 

Whose  traces  on  man's  aspect  are  not  such 
As  the  breeze  leaves  on  water? — Lofty  birth. 
War,  peril,  power  ?— Affliction's  hand  is  strong. 
If  it  erase  the  haughty  characters 
They  grave  so  deep  !— I  have  not  always  been 
That  which  I  am.    The  name  I  bore  is  not 
Of  those  which  perish! — I  was  once  a  chief, 
A  warrior ! — nor,  as  now,  a  lonely  man ! 
I  was  a  father  I 

Elmina.  Then  thy  heart  can  feel  I 

Thou  wilt  have  pity  I 
Hernandez.  Should  I  pity  thee? 

Thy  sons  will  perish  gloriously— their  blood 

Elmina.  Their   blood!    my  children's   blood !-• 

Thou  speak'st  as  'twere 
Of  casting  down  a  wine-cup,  in  the  mirth 
And  wantonness  of  feasting  !— My  fair  boys! 
— Man  !  hast  tliou  been  a  father  ? 

Hernandez.  Let  them  die  1 

Let  them  die  now,  thy  children  !  so  thy  heart 
Shall  wear  their  beautiful  image  all  undimm'd. 
Within  it.  to  the  last !     Nor  shall  thou  learn 
The  bitter  lesson,  of  what  worthless  dust 
Are  framed  the  idols,  whose  false  glory  binds 
Earth's  fetters  on  our  souls!— Thou   think'st  1 

much 

To  mourn  the  early  dead ;  but  there  are  tears 
Heavy  with  deeper  anguish !  We  endow 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


109 


Those  whom  we  love,  in  our  fond  passionate 

blindness. 

With  power  upon  our  souls,  too  absolute 
To  be  a  mortal's  trust !  Within  their  hands 
We  lay  the  flaming  sword,  whose  stroke  alone 
Can  reach  our  hearts,  and  they  are  merciful, 
As  they  are  strong,  that  wield  it  not  to  pierce  us ' 
—Ay,  rear  them,  fear  the  loved ! — Had  I  but  wep' 
O'er  my  son's  grave,  as  o'er  a  babe's,  where  tears 
Are  as  spring  dew-drops,  glittering  in  the  sun, 
And  brightening  the  young- verdure,  /might  still 
Have  loved  and  trusted  ! 

Elmina.  (disdainfully.)    But  he  fell  in  war  ! 
And  hath  riot  glory  medicine  in  her  cup 
For  the  brief  pangs  of  nature  ? 

Hernandez  Glory  ! — Peace, 

And  listen  ! — By  my  side  the  stripling  grew, 
Last  of  my  line.    I  rear'd  him  to  take  joy 
I'  th'  blaze  of  arms,  as  eagles  train  their  young 
To  look  upon  the  day-king — His  quick  blood 
E'en  to  his  boyish  cheek  would  mantle  up, 
When  the  heavens  rang  with  trumpets,  and  his  eye 
Flash  with  the  spirit  of  a  race  whose  deeds — 
But  this  availeth  not ! — Yet  he  was  brave. 
I've  seen  him  clear  himself  a  path  in  fight 
As  lightning  through  a  forest,  and  his  plume 
Waved  like  a  torch,  above  the  battle-storm. 
The  soldier's  guide,  when  princely  crests  had  sunk. 
And  banners  were  struck  down — Around  my  steps 
Floated  his  fame,  like  music,  and  I  lived 
But  in  the  lofty  sound.    But  when  my  heart 
Tn  one  frail  ark  had  ventured  all,  when  most 
He  seem'd  to  stand  between  my  soul  and  heaven 
— Then  came  the  thunder-stroke ! 

Etmina.  'Tis  ever  thus ! 

And  the  unquiet  and  foreboding  sense 
That  thus  'twill  ever  be,  doth  link  itself 
Darkly  with  all  deep  love  ! — He  died  ? 

Hernandez.  Not  so ! 

—Death!  Death!— Why,  earth  should  be  a  para- 
dise, 

To  make  that  name  so  fearful !    Had  he  died, 
With  his  young  fame  about  him  for  a  shroud, 

had  not  learn'd  the  might  of  agony, 
To  bring  proud  natures  low! — No!  he  fell  off— 
—Why  do  I  tell  thee  this  ?— What  right  hast  i/«m 
To  learn  how  pass'd  the  glory  from  my  house? 
Yet  listen!— He  forsook  me!— He,  that  was 
As  mine  own  soul,  forsook  me!— trampled  o'er 
The  ashes  of  his  sires!— Ay,  leagued  himself 
E'en  with  the  infidel,  the  curse  of  Spain, 
And,  for  the  dark  eye  of  a  Moorish  maid, 
Abjured  his  faith,  his  God!— Now,  talk  of  death! 

Elmina.    Oh !  I  can  pity  thee 

Hernandez.  There's  more  to  hear 

braced  the  corselet  o'er  my  heart's  deep  wound, 
And  cast  my  troubled  spirit  on  the  tide 
Of  war  and  high  events,  whose  stormy  waves 
Might  bear  it  up  from  sinking ; 

Elmina.  And  ye  met 

No  more  1 

Hernandez.    Be   still!— We  did!— we  met  once 

more. 

God  had  his  own  high  purpose  to  fulfil, 
Or  think'st  thou  that  the  sun  in  his  bright  heaven 
Had  look'd  upon  such  things  ?— We  met  oneemore. 
—That  was  an  hour  to  leave  its  lightning-mark 
Seared  upon  brain  and  bosom !— there  had  been 
Combat  on  Ebro'g  banks,  and  when  the  day 
Sank  in  red  clouds,  it  faded  from  a  field 
Still  held  by  Moorish  lances.    Night  closed  round, 
A  night  of  sultry,darkness,  in  the  shadow 
Of  whose  broad  wing,  e'en  unto  death  I  strove 
Long  with  a  lurban'd  champion  ;  but  my  sword 
Was  heavy  with  God's  vengeance— and  prevail'd. 
He  Ml— my  heart  exulted— and  I  stood 
In  g  oomy 'triumph  o'er  him— Nature  gave 
No  sign  of  horror,  for  'twas  Heaven's  decree! 
He  strove  to  speak— but  I  had  done  the  work 
Of  wrath  too  well— yet  in  his  last  deep  moan 
A  dreadful  something  of  familiar  sound 
Came  o'er  my  shuddering  sense— The  moon  look'd 
forth, 

And  I  beheld— speak  not !— 'twas  he— my  son ! 

My  boy  lay  dying  there !    He  raised  one  glance, 

And  knew  me— for  he  sought  with  feeble  hand 


To  cover  his  glazed  eyes.    A  darker  veil 
Sank  o'er  them  soon— I  will  not  have  thy  look 
Fixed  on  me  thus! — away! 

Elmina.  Thou  hast  seen  thi», 

Thou  hast  done  this— and  yet  thou  liv'st  ? 

Hernandez.  I  live! 

And  ktiow'st  thou  wherefore  ?— On  my  soul  there 

fell 

A  horror  of  great  darkness,  which  shut  out 
All  earth,  and  heaven,  and  hope.     I  cast  away 
The  spear  and  helm,  and  made  the  cloister's  shade 
The  home  of  my  despair.     But  a  deep  voice 
^ame  to  me  through  the  g  oom,  and  sent  its  tones 
Far  through  my  bosom's  depths.    And  I  awoke, 
Ay,  as  the  mountain  cedar  doth  shake  off 
Its  weight  of  wintry  snow,  e'en  so  I  shook 
Despondence  from  my  soul,  and  knew  mjself  i 

Seal'd  by  that  blood  wherewith  my  hands  were 

dyed, 

And  set  apart,  and  fearfully  niark'd  out 
Unto  a  mighty  task !— To  rouse  the  soul 
Of  Spain,  as  from  the  dead ;  and  to  lift  up 
The  cross,  her  sign  of  victory,  on  the  hills, 
Gathering  her  sons  to  battle  '.—And  my  voice 
Must  be  as  freedom's  trumpet  on  the  winds, 
From  Roncesvalles  to  the  blue  sea-waves 
Where  Calpe  looks  on  Afric ;  till  the  land 
Have  fill'd  her  cup  of  vengeance! — Ask  me  now 
To  yield  the  Christian  city,  that  its  fanes 
May  rear  the  minaret  in  the  face  of  heaven  ! 
—But  death  shall  have  a  bloodier  vintage-feast 
Ere  that  day  come! 

Elmina.  I  ask  thee  this  no  more, 

For  I  am  hopeless  now— But  yet  one  boon- 
Hear  me,  by  all  thy  woes!— Thy  voice  hath  power 
Through  the  wide  city— here  I  cannot  rest  :— 
Aid  me  to  pass  the  gates  ! 
Hernandez.  And  wherefore? 

Elmina.  Thou, 

That  wert  a  father,  and  art  now— alone! 
Canst    than    ask   'wherefore?'— Ask    the   wretch 

whose  sands 

Have  not  an  hour  to  run.  whose  failing  limbs 
Have  but  one  earthly  journey  to  perform. 
Why,  on  his  pathway  to  the  place  of  death, 
Ay,  when  the  very  axe  is  glistening  cold 
Upon  his  dizzy  sight,  his  pale,  parched  lip 
Implores  a  cup  of  water  ?— Why,  the  stroke 
Which  trembles  o'er  him  in  itself  shall  bring 
Oblivion  of  all  wants,  yet  who  denies 
Nature's  last  prayer?— I  tell  thee  that  the  thirst 
Which  burns  my  spirit  up  is  agony 
To  be  endured  no  morel— And  I  must  look 
Upon  my  children's  faces,  I  must  hear 
Their  voices,  ere  they  perish!— But  hath  Heaven 
Decreed  that  they  must  perish  ?— Who  shall  say 
If  in  yon  Moslem  camp  there  beats  no  heart 
Which  prayers  and  tears  may  melt  ? 

Hernandez.  There  !— with  the  Moor. 

Let  him  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  guilt! 
—'Tis  madness  all  1— How  would'st  thou  pass  the 

array 
Of  armed  foes  ? 

Elmina.  Oh!  free  doth  sorrow  pass, 

Free    and    unquestion'd,    through    a    suffering 

world !  (2T 
Hernandez.    This  must  not  be.    Enough  of  woe 

is  laid 

E'en  now,  upon  thy  lord's  heroic  soul, 
For  man  to  bear,  unsinking.    Press  thou  not 
Too  heavily  th'  o'erburthen'd  heart— Away ! 
Bow  down  the  knee,  and  send  thy  prayers  for 

strength 

Up  to  Heaven's  gate— Farewell !  [Exit  HERNANDEZ. 
Elmina.  Are  all  men  thus  ? 

— Why,  wer't  not  better  they  should  fall  e'en  now 
Than  live  to  slr:t  their  hearts,  in  haughty  scorn, 
Against  the  sufferer's  pleadings  ?— But  no,  no! 
Who  can  be  like  this  man,  that  slew  his  son. 
Yet  wears  his  life  atill  proudly,  ami  a  soul 
Untamed  upon  his  brow  ?  (After  a  pause) 

There's  one,  whose  arm* 
Have  borne  my  children  in  their  infancy, 
And  on  whose  knees  they  sported,  and  whose  hard 
Hath  led  them  oft— a  vassal  of  their  sire's : 
And  I  will  seek  him:  he  may  lend  me  aid, 
When  all  beside  pass  on.  V 


110 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


DIRGE   HEARD   WITHOUT. 


Thou  to  thy  rest  art  gone, 
High  heart !  and  what  are  we, 
While  o'er  our  heads  the  storm  sweeps  oc, 
That  we  should  mourn  for  thee  ? 

Free  grave  and  peaceful  bier 
To  the  buried  son  of  Spain  ! 
To  those  that  live,  the  lance  and  spear. 
And  well  if  not  the  chain  I 

Be  theirs  to  weep  the  dead 
As  they  sit  beneath  their  vines. 
Whose  flowery  land  hath  borne  no  tread 
Of  spoilers  o'er  its  shrines  ! 

Thou  hast  thrown  off  the  load 
Which  we  must  yet  sustain, 
And  pour  our  blood  where  thine  hath  flow'd. 
Too  blest  if  not  in  vain  ! 

We  give  thee  holy  rite. 
Slow  knell,  and  chanted  strain  ! 
—For  those  that  fall  to-morrow  night 
May  be  left  no  funeral  trait. 

Again,  when  trumpets  wake, 
We  must  brace  our  armour  on  ; 
But  a  deeper  note  thy  sleep  must  break— 
— Thou  to  thy  rest  art  gone  1 

Happier  in  this  than  all 
That,  now  thy  race  is  run, 
Upon  thy  name  no  stain  may  fall. 
Thy  work  hath  well  been  done 


Fear  not  that  I  embrace  my  doom— Oh  God  ! 
That  'twere  my  doom  alone! — with  les«  of  fix  d 
And  solemn  fortitude. — Lead  on.  prepare 
The  holiest  rites  of  faith,  that  I  by  them 
Once  more  may  consecrate  my  sword,  my  life, 
— But  what  are  these  ? — Who  hath  not  dearer  Hvei 
Twined  with  his  own  ?—  1  shall  be  lonely  soon — 
Childless!— Heaven  wills  it  so.     Let  us  begone. 
Perchance  before  the  shrine  my  heart  may  beat 
With  a  less  troubled  motion. 

\Exeunt  GONZALEZ  and  HERNANDEZ. 


Scene — Jl  Street  in  the  City. 
HERNANDEZ,  GONZALEZ. 

Hernandez.    Would  they  not  hear  ? 

Gonzalez.  They  heard,  as  one  that  stands 

fly  the  cold  grave  which  hath  but  newly  closed 
O'er  his  last  friend,  doth  hear  some  passer-bv 
Bid  him  be  comforted !— Their  hearts  have  died 
Within  them  : — We  must  perish,  not  as  those 
That  fall  when  battle's  voice  doth  shake  the  hills. 
And  psal  through  Heaven's  great  arch,  but  silently, 
And  with  a  wasting  of  the  spirit  down, 
A.  quenching,  day  by  day,  of  some  bright  spark, 
Which  lit  us  on  our  toils! — Reproach  me  not; 
My  soul  is  darken'd  with  a  heavy  cloud-- 
— Yet  fear  not  I  shall  yield  I 

Hernandez.  Breathe  not  the  word, 

Save  in  proud  scorn  :— Each  bitter  day,  o'erpass'd 
By  slow  endurance,  is  a  triumph  won 
For  Spain's  red  cross.     And  be  of  trusting  heart! 
A  few  brief  hours,  and  those  that  turn'd  away 
In  cold  despondence,  shrinking  from  your  voice. 
May  crowd  around  their  leader,  and  demand 
To  be  array'd  for  battle.    We  must  watch 
For  the  sw'ift  impulse,  and  await  its  time, 
As  the  bark  waits  the  ocean's.    You  have  chosen 
To  kindle  up  their  souls,  an  hour,  perchance, 
When  they  were  weary.    They  had  cast  aside 
Their  arms  to  slumber ;  or  a  knell,  just  then 
With  its  deep  hollow  tone,  had  made  the  blood 
Creep  shuddering  through  their  veins;  or  they 

had  caught 

A  glimpse  of  some  new  meteor,  and  shaped  forth 
Strange  omens  from  its  blaze. 

Oonzalez.  Alas  I  the  cause 

Lies  deeper  in  their  misery !— I  have  seen. 
In  my  night's  course  through  this  beleaguer'd  city, 
Things,  whose  remembrance  doth  not  pass  away 
As  vapours  from  the  mountains. — There   were 

gome, 

That  sat  beside  their  dead,  with  eyes  wherein 
Grief  had  ta'en  place  of  sight,  and  shut  out  all 
But  its  own  ghastly  object.    To  my  voice 
Some  answer'd  with  a  fierce  and  bitter  laugh, 
As  men  whose  agonies  were  made  to  pass 
The  bounds  of  sufferance,  by  some  reckless  word, 
Dropt  from  the  light  of  spirit.— Others  lay — 
Why  should  I  tell  thee,  father!  how  despair 
Can  bring  the  lofty  brow  of  manhood  down 
Unto  tlie  very  dust  ?— And  yet  for  this. 


Scene — Jl  tent  in  the  Moorish  Camp. 
ABDULLAH,  ALPHONSO,  CARLOS. 

Abdullah.    These  are  bold  words :  but  hast  thou 

look'd  on  death, 

Fair  stripling  ! — On  thy  cheek  and  sunny  brow 
Scarce  fifteen  summers  of  their  laughing  course 
Have  left  light  traces.    If  thy  shaft  hath  pierc'd 
The  ibex  of  the  mountains,  if  thy  step 
Hath  climb'd  some  eagle's  nest,  and  thou  hast  made 
His  nest  thy  spoil,  't  is  much : — And  fear'st  thou  not 
The  leader  of  the  mighty  ? 

Alphonso.  I  have  been 

Rear'd  among  fearless  men,  and  'miilst  the  rocks 
And  the  wild  hills,  whereon  my  fathers  fought 
And  won  their  battles.    There  are  glorious  tales 
Told  of  their  deeds,  and  I  have  learn'd  them  all. 
How  should  I  fear  thee,  Moor? 

Abdullah.  So,  thou  hast  seen 

Fields,  where  the  combat's  roar  hath  died  away 
Into  the  whispering  breeze,  and  where  wild  flowers 
Bloom  o'er  forgotten  graves! — But  know'st  thou 

aught 
Of  those,  where  sword  from  crossing  sword  strikes 

fire. 

And  leaders  are  borne  down,  and  rushing  steeds 
Trample  the  life  from  out  the  mighty  hearts 
That  ruled  the  storm  so  late?— Speak  not  of  death. 
Till  thou  hast  look'd  on  such. 

A/phonfa.  T  was  not  born 

A  shepherd's  son,  to  dwell  with  pipe  and  crook. 
And  peasant-men,  amidst  the  lowly  vales; 
Instead  of  ringing  clarions,  and  bright  spears, 
And  crested  knights!— I  am  of  princely  race. 
And,  if  my  father  would  have  heard  my  suit, 
I  tell  thee,  infidel !  that  long  ere  now, 
I  should  have  seen  how  lances  meet,  and  swords 
Do  the  field's  work. 

Abdullah.       Boy!  know'st  thou  there  are  sights 
A  thousand  times  more  fearful! — Men  may  die 
Full  proudly,  when  the  skies  and  mountains  ring 
To  battle-horn  and  tecbir.*— But  not  all 
So  pass  away  in  glory.    There  are  those, 
'Midst  the  dead  silence  of  pale  multitudes, 
Led  forth  in  fetters— dost  thou  mark  me,  boy? — 
To  take  their  last  look  of  th'  all  gladdening  sun. 
And  bow,  perchance,  the  stately  head  of  youth, 
Unto  the  death  of  shame !— Hast  thou  seen  this  ?— 
Alphonso  (to  Carlos.)  Sweet  brother,  God  is  wit* 

us— fear  thou  not ! 

We  have  had  heroes  for  our  sires — This  man 
Should  not  behold  us  tremble. 

Abdullah.  There  are  means 

To  tame  the  loftiest  natures.    Yet  again 
I  ask  thee,  wilt  thou,  from  beneath  the  walls. 
Sue  to  thy  sire  for  life ;  or  wouldst  thou  die. 
With  this,  thy  brother? 

Alphonso.  Moslem)  on  the  hills, 

Around  my  father's  castle,  I  have  heard 
The  mountain-peasants,  as  they  dress'd  the  vines. 
Or  drove  the  goats,  by  rock  and  torrent,  home. 
Singing  their  ancient  songs ;  and  these  were  all 
Of  the  Cid  Campeador ;  and  how  his  sword 
Tizona  (3)  clear'd  its  way  through  turban'd  hosts 
And  captured  Afric's  kines,  and  how  he  won 
Valencia  from  the  Moor.  (4)— 1  will  not  shame 
The  blood  we  draw  from  him  1 

(A  Moorish  Soldier  enters.) 
Soldier.  Valencia's  lord 

Sends  messengers,  my  chief. 
Abdullah.  Conduct  them  hith 

•  "  Tecbir,"  the  wir-cry  of  the  Moon  md  Arab*. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Ill 


[The  Soldier  goes  out,  and  re-enters  with  ELMINA, 
disguised,  and  an  Attendant.} 

Carlos  (springing-  forward  to  the  Attendant.)  Oh  I 

take  me  hence,  Diego !  take  me  hence 
With  thee,  that  I  may  see  my  mother's  face 
At  morning,  when  I  wake.  Here  dark-brow'd 

men 

Frown  strangely,  with  their  cruel  eyes,  upon  us. 
Take  me  with  thee,  for  thou  art  good  and  kind, 
And  well  I  know  thou  lov'st  me.  my  Diego! 

Abdullah.  Peace,  boy . — What  tidings,  Christian, 

from  thy  lord  ? 

Is  he  grown  humbler  ? — doth  he  set  the  lives 
Of  these  fair  nurslings  at  a  city's  worth? 

Alphonso  (rushing- forward  impatiently.)  Say  not, 

he  doth ! — Yet  wherefore  art  thou  here  ? 
If  it  be  so — I  could  weep  with  burning  tears 
For  very  shame ! — If  this  can  be,  return  1 
Tell  him,  of  all  his  wealth,  his  battle-spoils, 
I  will  but  ask  a  war-horse  and  a  sword, 
And  that  beside  him  in  the  mountain-chase, 
And  in  his  halls,  and  at  his  stately  feasts, 
My  place  shall  be  no  more! — But  no ! — I  wrong, 
I  wrong  my  father  1 — Moor  I  believe  it  not! 
He  is  a  Champion  of  the  Cross  and  Spain, 
Sprung  from  the  Cid  ;  and  I  too,  I  can  die 
As  a  warrior's  high-born  child ! 

Elmina.  Alas)  alas! 

And  wouldst  thou  die,  thus  early  die,  fair  boy? 
What  hath  life  done  to  thee,  that  thou  shouldst 

cast 

Its  flower  away,  in  very  scorn  of  heart, 
Ere  yet  the  blight  be  come  ? 

Alphonso.  That  voice  doth  sound 

Abdullah.    Stranger,    who   art    thou  ?— this    is 
mockery — speak ! 

Elmina  (throwing  off  a  mantle  and  a  helmet,  and 
embracing  her  sons.)     My   boys !    whom   I  have 

rear'd  through  many  hours 
Of  silent  joys  and  sorrows,  and  deep  thoughts 
Untold  and  unimagined  ;  let  me  die 
With  you,  now  I  have  held  you  to  my  heart. 
And  seen  once  more  the  faces,  in  w  hose  light 
My  soul  hath  lived  for  years! 

Carlos.  Sweet  mother !  now 

Thou  shall  not  leave  us  more. 

Abdullah.  Enough  of  this ! 

Woman !  what  seek'st  thou  here  ? — How  hast  thou 

dared 
To  front  the  mighty  thus  amidst  his  hosts  ? 

Elmina.    Think'st  thou  there  dwells  no  courage 

but  in  breasts 

That  set  their  mail  against  the  ringing  spears, 
When  helmets  are    struck    down  ?— Thou   little 

know'st 

Of  nature's  marvels! — Chief!  my  heart  is  nerved 
To  make  its  way  through  things  which  warrior 

men, 

—Ay,  they  that  master  death  by  field  or  flood, 
Would  look   on,  ere  they   braved! — I   have    no 

thought, 

No  sense  of  fear! — Thou'rt  mighty;  but  a  soul 
Wound  up  like  mine,  is  mightier,  in  the  power 
Of  that  one  feeling,  pour'd  through  all  its  depths, 
Than  monarchs  with  their  hosts! — Am  I  not  come 
To  die  with  these,  my  children  ? 

Abdullah.  Doth  thy  faith 

Bid  thee  do  this,  fond  Christian  ?— Hast  thou  not 
The  means  to  save  them  ? 

Elmina.  I  have  prayers  and  tears, 

And  agonies!— and  he— my  God— the  God 
Whose  hand,  or  soon  or  late,  doth  And  its  hour 
To  bow  the  crested  head— hath  made  these  things 
Most  powerful  in  a  world  where  all  must  learn 
That  one  deep  language,  by  the  storm  call'd  forth 
From  the  bruis'd  reeds  of  earth !— For  thee,  per- 

chance, 

Affliction's  chastening  lesson  hath  not  yet 
Been  laid  upon  thy  heart,  and  thou  may'st  love 
To  see  the  creatures,  by  its  might  brought  low, 
Humbled  before  thee. 

[She  throws  herself  at  his  feet 
Conqueror!  I  can  kneel! 
I,  that  drew  birth  from  princes,  bow  myself 
E'en  to  thy  feet !    Call  in  thy  chiefs,  thy  slaves. 


If  this  will  swell  thy  triumph,  to  behold 
The  blood  of  kings,  of  heroes,  thus  debased! 
Do  this,  but  spare  my  sons! 

Alphonso  (attempting  to  raise  her.)  Thou  shouldsl 

not  kneel 

Unto  this  infidel!— Rise,  rise,  my  mother! 
This  sight  doth  shame  our  house. 

Abdullah.  Thou  daring  ->oy  I 

They  that  in  arms  have  taught  thy  father's  land 
How  chains  are  worn,  shall  school  that  haughty 

mien 
Unto  another  language. 

Elmina.  Peace,  my  son ; 

Have  pity  on  my  heart  —Oh,  pardon,  Chie*— 
He  is  of  noble  blood.— Hear,  hear  me  yet! 
Are  there  no  lives  through  which  the  shafts  .f 

Heaven 
May  reach  your  soul?— He  that  loves  aught  on 

earth, 

Dares  far  too  much,  if  he  be  merciless! 
Is  it  for  those,  whose  frail  mortality 
Must  one  day  strive  alone  with  God  and  death, 
To  shut  their  souls  against  th'  appealing  voice 
Of  nature  in  her  anguish  ? — Warrior !  man  ! 
To  you  too,  ay,  and  haply  with  your  hosts. 
By  thousands  and  ten  thousands  marshall'd  round, 
And  your  strong  armour  on,  shall  come  that  stroke 
Which  the  lance  wards  not. — Where  shall  your 

high  heart 

Find  refuge  then,  if  in  the  day  of  might 
Woe  hath  laid  prostrate,  bleeding  at  your  feet, 
And  you  have  pitied  not? 

Abdullah.  These  are  vain  words. 

Elmina.    Have  you  no  children  ?— fear  you  not 

to  bring 

The  lightning  on  their  heads?— In  your  own  land 
Doth  no  fond  mother,  from  the  tents,  beneath 
Your  native  palms,  look  o'er  the  deserts  out, 
To  greet  your  homeward  step  ?— You  have  not  yet 
Forgot  so  utterly  her  patient  love — 
— For  is  not  woman's,  in  all  climes,  the  same! — 
That  you  should  scorn  my  prayer!— Oh  Heavent 

his  eye 
Doth  wenr  no  mercy ! 

Abdullah.  Then  it  mocks  you  not. 

I  have  swept  o'er  the  mountains  of  your  land, 
Leaving  my  traces,  as  the  visitings 
Of  storms,  upon  them!— Shall  I  now  be  stay'd? 
Know,  unto  me  it  were  as  light  a  thing, 
In  this,  my  course,  to  quench  your  children's  lives. 
As,  journeying  through  a  forest,  to  break  off 
The  young  wild  branches  that,  obstruct  the  way 
With  their  green  sprays  and  leaves. 

Elmina.  Are  there  such  hearts 

Among  thy  works,  oh  God  ? 

Abdullah.  Kneel  not  to  me. 

Kneel  to  your  lord;  on  his  resolves  doth  hang 
His  children's  doom.  He  may  be  lightly  won 
By  a  few  bursts  of  passionate  tears  and  words. 

Elmina  (rising  indignantly.)   Speak  riot  of  noble 

men  ! — he  bears  a  soul 
Stronger  than  love  or  death. 

Alphonso  (with  exultation.)   I  knew 'twas  thus— 
He  could  not  fail  1 

Elmina.  There  is  no  mercy,  none. 

On  this  cold  earth! — To  strive  with  such  a  world, 
Hearts  should  be  void  of  love.    We  will  go  henca 
My  children,  we  are  summon'd.     Lay  your  head* 
In  their  young  radiant  beauty,  once  again 
To  rest  upon  this  bosom.     He  that  dwells 
Beyond  the  clouds  which  press  us  darkly  round, 
Will  yet  have  pity,  and  before  his  face 
We  three  will  stand  together !    Moslem !  now 
Let  the  stroke  fall  at  once. 

Abdullah.  'Tis  thine  own  will. 

These  might  e'en  yet  be  spared. 

Elmina.  Thou  wilt  not  sparo 

And  he  beneath  whose  eye  their  childhood  grew. 
And  in  whose  paths  they  sported,  and  whose  eat 
From  their  first  lisping  accents  caught  the  sound 
Of  that  word — Father — once  a  name  of  love — 
Is Men  shall  call  him  steadfast. 

Abdullah.  Hath  the  blast 

Of  sudden  trumpets  ne'er  at  dean  of  night, 
When  the  land's  watchers  fear'd  no  hostile  step, 
Startled  the  slumberers  from  their  dreamy  wi  rid, 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WOTIKS. 


In  cities,  whose  heroic  lord*  have  been 
Steadfast  as  thine  ? 

Eimina.  Tlu-re's  in  aning  hi  thine  eye, 

More  than  thy  words. 

Abdullah     (jfO&iiug  tn  Ihr  city.)     Look    to   yon 

towers  and  walls! 

Think  you  no  hearts  within  their  limits  pine. 
Weary  of  hopeless  warfare   and  prepared 
To  burst  the  feeble  link*  w  liich  hind  tit,  m  still 
Unto  endurance  ? 

Eimina  Thou  hast  said  too  well. 

But  what  of  this  ? 

Abdul.ali.  Then  then-  are  those,  to  whom 

The  Prophet's  armies  not  as  f.>es  would  pass 
Your  gates,  but  as  deliverers.     Might  they  not, 
Tn  some  still  hour,  when  weariness  takes  rest, 
Be  won  to  welcome  us?    Your  children's  *teps 
May  yet  bound  lightly  through  their  father's  halls. 

Alphonso  (indignantly.)  Thou  treacherous  Moorl 

Eimina.     Let  me  not  thus  he  tried 
Beyond  all  strength,  oh  Heaven! 

Abdullah.  Now.  'tis  for  thee, 

Thou  Christian  mother,  on  thy  sons  to  pass 
The  sentence — life  or  death— the  price  is  set 
On  their  young  blood,  and  rests  within  thy  hands. 

•llphonso.     Mother,  thou  tremblest ! 

Abdullah.     Hath  thy  heart  resolved  ? 

Eimina  (covering  her  face  with  her  hands.) 
My  boy's  proud  eye  is  on  me,  and  the  things 
Which  rush,  in  stormy  darkness,  through  my  soul, 
Bhrink  from  his  glance.     I  cannot  answer  here. 

Abdullah.    Come  forth.    We'll   commune  else- 
where. 

Carlos  (to  his  mother.)    Wilt  thou  go  ? 
Oh.  let  me  follow  thee ! 

Eimina.  Mine  own  fair  child  ! 

— Now  that  thine  eyes  have  pour'd  once  more  on 

mine 

The  light  of  their  young  smile,  an'd  thy  sweet  voice 
Hath  sent  its  gentle  music  through  my  soul, 
And  I  have  felt  the  twining  of  thine  atms — 
— How  shall  I  leave  tbee? 

Abdullah.  Leave  him,  as  'twere  bu 

For  a  brief  slumber,  to  behold  his  face 
At  morning,  with  the  sun's. 

Alphanso.  Thou  hast  no  look 

For  me.,  my  mother  ? 

Eimina.  Oh,  that  I  should  live 

To  say,  I  dare  not  look  on  thee  '—Farewell, 
My  first-born,  fare  thee  well. 

Alphonso  Yet,  yet  beware  1 

It  were  a  grief  more  heavy  on  thy  soul, 
That  I  should  blush  for  thee,  than  o'er  my  grave 
That  thou  shouldst  proudly  weep. 

Abdullah.     Away!  we   trifle   here.    The  night 

wanes  fast. 
Come  forth. 

Eimina.  One  more  embrace — My  sons,  farewell. 
\Eieunt  ABDULLAH  with  ELMINA  and  her  Attendant. 

Alphonso.    Hear  me  yet  once,  my  mother  I 

Art  thou  gone  ? 
But  one  word  more. 

[He  rushes  out,  followed  by  CARLOS 


Scene— The  Garden  of  a  Palace  in  Valencia. 
XIMENA,  THERESA. 

Theresa.  Stay  yet  awhile.  A  purer  air  doth  rove 
Here   through  the  myrtles  whispering,  and   the 

limes, 

And  shaking  sweetness  from  the  orange  boughs, 
Than  waits  you  in  the  city. 

Ximena.  There  are  those 

In  their  last  need,  and  on  their  bed  of  death. 
At  which  no  hand  doth  minister  but  mine, 
That  wait  me  in  the  city.    Let  us  hence. 

Theresa.  You  have  been  wont  to  love  the  music 

made 

By  founts,  and  rustling  foliage,  and  soft  winds, 
Breathing  of  citron-groves.  And  will  you  turn 
From  these  to  scenes  of  death? 

Ximena.  To  me  the  voice 

Of  summer,  whispering  through  young  flowers 
and  leaves, 


Now  sneaks  too  deep  a  language  ;  and  of  all 
Its  dreamy  and  mysterious  melodies, 
The  breathing  soul  is  sadness. — I  have  felt 
That  summons  throuch  my  spirit,  after  which 
The  hues  of  earth  arc  changed,  and  all  her  sound! 
Seem   fraught    with    secret   warnings.     There  it 

cause 

That  I  should  bend  my  footsteps  to  the  scenes 
Where  death  is  busy.  tamiiiL'  warrior-hearts, 
And  pouring  winter  through  the  fiery  blood, 
And  fettering  the  strong  arm.— For  now  no  sigh 
In  the  dull  air.  nor  floating  cloud  in  heaven, 
No,  not  the  lightest  murmur  of  a  leaf. 
But  of  his  angel's  silent  coining  bears 
Some  token  to  my  soul.     But  naught  of  this 
Unto  my  mother.— These  are  awful  hours  ! 
And  on  their  heavy  steps,  afflictions  crowd 
With  such  dark  pressure,  there  is  left  no  room 
For  one  grief  more. 

Theresa.  Sweet  lady,  talk  not  thus ! 

Your  eye  this  morn  doth  wear  a  calmer  light. 
There's  more  of  life  in  its  clear  tremulous  ray 
Than  I  have  mark'd  of  late.     Nay,  go  not  yet; 
Rest  by  this  fountain,  where  the  laurels  dip 
Their  glossy  leaves.     A  fresher  gale  doth  spring 
From  the  transparent  waters,  dashing  round 
Their  silvery  spray,  with  a  sweet  voice  of  coo*- 

ness, 

O'er  the  pale  glistening  marble.     'Twill  call  up 
Faint  bloom,  if  b,it  a  moment's,  to  your  cheek. 
Rest  here,  ere  you  go  forth,  and  I  will  Bing 
The  melody  you  love. 

THERESA  sings. 

Whv  is  the  Ppanish  maiden's  grave 
So  far  from  her  own  bright  land  ? 

The  sunny  flowers  that  o'er  it  wave 
Were  sown  by  no  kindred  hand. 

'Tis  not  the  orange-bough  that  sends 

Its  breath  on  the  sultry  air, 
'Tis  not  the  myrtle-stem  that  bends 

To  the  breeze  of  evening  there! 

But  the  Rose  of  Sharon's  eastern  bloom 

By  the  silent  dwelling  fades, 
And  none  but  strangers  pass  the  tomb 

Which  the  Palm  of  Judah  shades. 

The  lowly  cross,  with  flowers  o'ergrown, 

Marks  well  that  place  of  rest; 
But  who  hath  graved,  on  its  mossy  stones, 

A  sword,  a  helm,  a  crest  ? 

These  are  the  trophies  of  a  chief, 

A  lord  of  the  axe  and  spear! 
— Some  blossom  pl'ick'd.  some  faded  leaf, 

Should  grace  a  maiden's  bier  I 

Scorn  not  her  tomb— deny  not  her 

The  honours  of  the  brave  ! 
O'er  that  forsaken  sepulchre, 

Banner  and  plume  might  wave. 

She  bound  the  steel,  in  battle  tried, 

Her  fearless  heart  above, 
And  stood  with  brave  men.  side  by  side, 

In  the  strength  and  faith  of  love  I 

That  strength  prevail'd— that  faith  was  bless'rf 

True  was  the  javelin  thrown, 
Yet  pierced  it  not  her  warrior's  breast. 

She  met  it  with  her  own ! 

And  nobly  won,  where  ?>eroes  fell 

In  arms  for  the  holy  shrine, 
A  death  which  saved  what  she  loved  so  welt, 

And  a  grave  in  Palestine. 

Then  let  the  Rose  of  Sharon  spread 

Its  breast,to  the  glowing  air, 
And  the  Palm  of  Judah  lift  its  head, 

Green  and  immortal  there  1 

And  let  yon  gray  stone,  undefaced, 

With  its  trophy  mark  the  scene, 
Telling  the  pilgrim  of  the  waste, 

Where  Love  and  Death  have  been. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  AA'ORKS. 


113 


.-, -ntfn...     "rose  notes  were  wont  to  make  my 

wa  t.  V'Ht  quick, 

A»  H'  >  voj.  t  c*  victory  :  but  to-day 
ft,<.  h,vi/l  of  lhf>  song  is  chaugerl,  and  seems 
All  'iHiirrful      Oh  !  that  ere  my  early  grave 
Shuts  cut  the  sun-beam,  I  might  hear  one  peal 
Of  the  Cadt.lian  trumpet,  ringing  forth 
Beneath  my  father's  banner!— In  that  sound 
Were  life  to  you,  sweet  brothers! — But  for  me — 
Come  on— o-ir  tasks  await  us.     Tuny  who  know 
Tlinir  hours  ure  riumber'd  out,  have  little  time 
To  give  the  vague  and  slumberous  languor  way, 
Which  iioth  steal  o'er  them  in  the  breath  of  flowers 
And  whisper  of  soft  winds. 

KI.MINA  enters  hurriedly. 

Klmina.  This  air  will  calm  my  spirit,  ere  yet  1 

meet 

Hi.-:  eye,  which  must  be  met.  Thou  here,  Ximena! 
{She  starts  back,  on  seeing  XIMENA. 

Ximena.  Alas  !  my  mother !  in  that  hurrying  step 
And  troubled  glance  I  read 

Klmina    (wildly.)  Thou  read'st  it  not  I 

Why,  who  would  live,  if  unto  mortal  eye 
Tin!  things  lay  glaring,  which  within  our  hearts 
We  treasure  up  for  God's?— Thou  read'st  it  not! 
I  say,  lliou  canst  not!— There's  not  one  on  earth 
Shall  know  the  thoughts,  which  for   themselves 

have  made 

A  ml  kept  dark  places  in  the  very  breast 
Whereon  he  hath  laid  his  slumber,  till  the  hour 
When  the  graves  open  1 

Ximena.  Mother  !  what  is  this? 

Alas  !  your  eye  if  wandering,  and  your  cheek 
Flutb'U,  as  with  fever!    To  your  woes  the  night 
Hath  brought  no  rest. 

Klmina.  Rest! — who  should  rest  ?— not  he 

That  holds  one  earthly  blessing  to  his  heart 
\Yarer  than  life! — No!  if  this  world  have  aught 
Of  bright  or  precious,  let  not  him  who  calls 
Such  things  Inn  own,  take  rest  !— Dark  spirits  keep 

>VH  tnh 

Atnl  they  to  whom  fair  honour,  chivalrous  fame, 
Were  as  heaven's  air,  the  vital  element 
Wherein  they  breathed,  may  wake,  and  find  their 

souls 

Made  marks  for  human  scorn  ! — Will  they  bear  on 
With  life  struck  down,  and  thus  disrobed  of  all 
Its  glorious  drapery  ? — Who  shall  tell  us  this  ? 
— Will  he  so  bear  it  ? 

Ximena.  Mother!  let  us  kneel, 

And  blend  our  hearts  in  prayer! — What  else  is  left 
To  mortals  when  the  dark  hour's  might  is  on 

them  ? 

— Leave  us,  Theresa.— Grief  like  this  doth  find 
Its  balm  in  solitude.  [  Krit  THERESA. 

My  mothe   !  peace 

I»  heaven's  benignant  answer  to  the  cry 
Of  wounded  spirits.    Wilt  thou  kneel  with  me? 
Klmina.     Away!  'tis  but  for  souls  unstain'd  to 

wear 
Heaven's   tranquil  image  on   their  depths. — The 

stream 

Of  mv  dark  thoughts,  all  broken  by  the  storm, 
({(•fleets  but  clouds  and   lightnings! — Didst    thou 

speak 

Of  peace? — 'T  is  fled  from  earth  1 — hut  there  is  joy . 
Wild,  troubled  joy! — And  who  shall  know,  my 

child! 

It  is  not  happiness  ? — Why,  our  own  hearts 
Will  keep  the  secret  close ! — Joy,  joy  !  if  but 
To  leave  this  desolate  city,  with  its  dull 
Plow  knells  and  dirges,  and  to  breathe  again 
Th'   untainted    mountain    air! — But    hush!  the 

trees, 

The  flowers,  the  waters,  must  hear  nanght  of  this ! 
They  are  fill  of  voices,  and  will  whisper  things — 
—We'll  epeak  of  it  no  more. 

Ximena.  Oh !  pitying  Heaven  I 

This  grief  doth  shake  her  reason  ! 

Klmina  (starting.)  Hark  1  a  step  ! 

Tis— 'tis  thy  father's— come  away— not  now — 
He  must  not  see  us  now  ' 
Ximena.  Why  should  this  be  1 

8 


GONZALEZ  enters  anil  itelains  KI.MINA. 

Gonzale:.   Klmina.  dost   thou   shun  me  ?—  Hav« 

we  not 

E'en  from  the  hopeful  and  the  sunny  time 
When  youth  was  as  a  glory  round  our  brows, 
Held  on  through  life  together  ?— And  is  this, 
When  eve  is  gathering  round  us.  with  the  gloom 
Of  stormy  clouds,  a  time  to  part  our  steps 
Upnn  the  darkening  wild? 

Klmina  (coldly.)  There  needs  not  this. 

Why  shouldst  thou  think  I  shnnn'd  thee  ? 

Gon-.alez.  Should  the  love 

That  shone  o'er  many  years,  th'  unfading  love. 
Whose  only  change  hath  been  from  gladdening 

S!  liles 

To  mingling  sorrows  and  sustaining  strength, 
Thus  lightly  be  forgotten  ? 

F.lmina.  Speak'st  thou  thus ! 

— 1  have  knelt  before  thee  with  that  very  plea. 
When  it  avail'd  me  not! — But  there  are  things 
Whose  very  breathings  on  the  soul  erase 
All  record  of  past  love,  save  the  chill  sense, 
Th'  unquiet  memory  of  its  wasted  faith. 
And  vain  devotedness! — Ay,  they  that  fix 
Affection's  perfect  trust  on  aught  of  earth 
Have  many  a  dream  to  start  from ! 

Gonzalez.  This  is  hut 

The  wildness  and  the  bitterness  of  grief. 
Ere  yet  th'  unsettled  heart  hath  closed  its  long 
Impatient  conflicts  with  a  mightier  power. 
Which  makes  all  conflicts  vain. 

Hark  !  was  there  not 

A  sound  of  distant 'trumpets,  far  beyond 
The  Moorish  tents,  and  of  another  tone 
Than  th'  Afric  horn,  Ximena? 

Ximena.  Oh.  my  father  ! 

I  know  that  horn  too  well. — 'Tis  but  the  wind, 
Which,  with  a  sudden  rising,  bears  its  deep 
And  savase  war-note  from  us,  wafting  it 
O'er  the  far  hills. 

Gonzalez.  Alas!  this  woe  must  be 

I  do  but  shake  my  spirit  from  its  height     ' 
.SD  startling  it  with  hope  ! — But  the  dread  no  i 
Sliall  be  met  bravely  still.     I  can  keep  down 
Vet  for  a  little  while — and  Heaven  will  ask 
No  more — the  passionate  workings  of  my  heart; 
—And  thine — Klmina! 

F.lmina.  'Tis— I  am  prepared. 

I  hare  prepared  for  all. 

Gonzalez.  Oh,  well  I  knew 

Thou  wouldst  not  fail  me! — Not  in  vain  my  soul, 
Upon  thy  faith  and  courage,  hath  built  up 
Unshaken  trust. 

Elmina  (wildly.)  Away! — thou  know'st  me  not  I 
Man  dares  too  far  :  his  rashness  would  invest 
This  our  mortality  with  an  attribute 
Too  high  and  awful,  boasting  that  he  knows 
One  human  heart! 

Gonzalez.             These  are  wild  words,  but  yet 
I  will  not  doubt  thee! — Hast  thou  not  he«n  found 
Noble  in  all  things,  pouring  thy  soul's  light 
Undimm'd  o'er  every  trial  ? — And,  as  our  fates. 
So  must  our  names  be,  undivided  ! — Thine, 
I'  th'  record  of  a  warrior's  life,  shall  find 
[Is  place  of  stainless  honour.     By  his  side 

Elmina.     May   this   be   borne ! — How   much  of 

agony 

Hath  the  heart  room  for?— Speak  to  me  in  wrath — 
I  can  endure  it ! — But  no  gentle  words! 
No  words  of  love  !  no  praise  ! — Thy  sword  might 

slay. 
And  be  more  merciful ! 

Gonzalez.  Wherefore  art  thou  thus? 

Elmina,  my  beloved! 

Klmina.  No  more  of  love  1 

— Have  I  not  said  there's  that  within  my  heart. 
Whereon  it  falls  as  living  fire  would  fall 
Upon  an  unclosed  wound? 

Gonzalez.  Nay,  lift  thine  eyes 

That  1  may  read  their  meaning' 

Klmina.  Never  more 

With  a  free    soul— What    have  I  said  ?— 'twas 

naught! 

Take  thou  no  heed!  The  words  of  wretchedness 
Artmit  not  scrutiny.  Wouldst  thou  mark  the  speech 
Of  troubled  dreams  ? 


114 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Gonzalez.  I  have  seen  thee  in  the  hour 

Of  thy  deep  spirit's  joy,  and  when  the  brealh 
Of  grief  hung  chilling  round  thee;  in  all  change, 
Bright   health  and  drooping  sickness;   hope   and 

fear ; 

Youth  and  decline;  but  never  yet,  Elmina, 
Ne'er  hath  thine  eye  till  now  shrunk  back  per- 

tnrb'd 
With  shame  or  dread,  from  mine) 

Elmina.  Thy  glance  doth  search 

A  wounded  heart  too  deeply. 

Gonzalez.  Hast  thou  there 

Aught  to  conceal  ? 

Ktmiua.  Who  hath  not  ? 

Gonzalez.  Till  this  hour 

T/iuu  never  hadst! — Yet  hear  me! — by  the  free 
And  unattainted  fame  which  wraps  the  dust 
Of  thine  heroic  fathers 

Elmina.  This  to  me  ! 

—  Bring  your  inspiring  war-notes,  and  your  sounds- 
Of  fectal  music,  round  a  dying  man  ! 
Will  his  heart  echo  them  ? — But  if  thy  words 
W,  re  *|H-lls.  to  call  up  with  each  li.fty  tone, 
'I'll  •  grave's  most  awful  spirits,  they  would  stand 
Powerless,  before  my  anguish! 

Gouiaiez.  Then,  by  her, 

WTho  there  looks  on  thee  in  the  purity 
Of  her  devoted  youth,  and  o'er  u  hose  name 
No  blight  must  fall,  and  xvln.se  pale  check  must 

ne'er 

Burn  with  that  deeper  tinge,  caught  painfully 
From  the  quick  feeling  of  dishonour — Speak  1 
Unfold  this  mystery  ! — By  thy  sons 

Elmina.  My  sons  I 

And  canst  thou  name  them  ? 

Gonzalez.  •  Proudly !— Better  far 

They  died  with  all  the  promise  of  their  youth, 
And  the  fair  honour  of  their  house  upon  them, 
Than  that  with  manhood's  high  and  passionate 

soul 

To  fearful  strength  unfolded,  they  should  live, 
Barr'd  from  the  lists  of  crested  chivalry, 
And  pi  nine  in  the  silence  of  a  woe, 
Which  from  the  heart  shuts  daylight :— o'er  the 

shame 
Ol  those  who  gave  them  birth!— but  thou  couldsl 

ne'er 
Forget  their  lofty  claims! 

Klmina  (wildly.)  'Twas  but  for  them! 

'Twas  for  them  only  !— Who  shall  dare  arraign 
Ma  lues*  of'r.riuie  7— And  he  who  made  us,  knows 
Th  're  are  dark  moments  of  all  hearts  and  lives, 
Which  hear  down  reason  ! 

Gonzalez.  Thou,  whom  I  have  loved 
With  such  high  trust,  as  oVr  our  nature  threw 
A  glory,  scarce  nllow'd  ;— what  hast  thou  done? 
Ximena,  go  thou  hence! 

Elmina.  No,  no !  my  child  I 

There's  pity  in  thy  look!— All  other  eyes 
Are  full  of  wrath  and  scorn  !— Oh  !  leave  me  not! 

Gonzalez.       That  I  should  live,  to  see  tbee  thus 

abased! 
—Yet  speak  !— What  hast  thou  done  ? 

Elmina.  Look  to  the  gate ! 

Thou'rt  worn  with  toil— But  take  no  rest  to-night! 
The  western  gate ! — Its  watchers  have  been  won — 
The  Christian  city  hath  been  bought  and  sold! 
They  will  admit  the  Moor  ! 

Gonzalez.  They  have  been  won  ! 

Brave  men  and  tried  so  long !— Whose  work  was 
this? 

Elmina.  Think'st  thou  all  hearts  like  thine?— 

Can  mothers  stand 
To  see  their  children  perish  ? 

Gonzalez.  Then  the  guilt 

Was  thine! 

Rlmina.    —Shall  mortal  dare  to  call  it  guilt  ? 

tell  thee.  Heaven,  which  made  all  holy  things, 
>Ia-1e  naught  more  holy  than  the  boundless  love 
Vhich  fills  a  mother's  heart!— I  say,  'tis  woe 
;i  loueh  with  s'ich  an  aching  tenderness, 
Vi  live  a-ight  earthly !— and  in  vain  !  in  vain! 
— We  ar  •  pr  >ss'd  down  too  sorely  ! 

OtiH'.a'r.  (i'>  a  >mc  r/ftponrlintr  roirr.)  Now  my  life 
f«  «tr  irk  to  worthless  aslvs'  —  In  in  v  sou  I 
8  ispicion  hath  tu'en  root.    The  nobleness 


Henceforth  is  blotted  from  all  human  brows. 
And  fearful  power,  a  dark  and  troublous  gift, 
Almost  like  prophecy,  is  pour'il  upon  me, 
To  read  the  guilty  secrets  in  each  eye 
That  once  look'd  bright  with  truth! 

— Why  then  I  have  gain's 

What  men  call  wisdom ! — A  new  sense,  to  which 
All  tales  that  speak  of  high  fidelity, 
And  holy  courage,  and  proud  honour,  tried, 
Search'd.  and  found  steadfast,  even  to  martyrdom. 
Are  food  for  mockery  ! — Why  should  I  not  cast 
From  my  thinn'd  locks  the  wearing  helm  at  once, 
And  in  the  heavy  sickness  of  my  soul 
Throw  the  sword  down  for  ever? — Is  there  aught 
In  all  this  world  of  gilded  hollowness, 
Noxv  the  bright  hues  drop  off  its  loveliest  things. 
Worth  striving  for  again  ? 

Ximena.  Father !  look  up ! 

Turn  unto  me,  thy  child  ! 

Gonzalez.  Thy  face  is  fair ; 

Ami  hull)  been  unto  me,  in  other  days, 
As  morning  to  the  journeyer  of  the  deep; 
B  it  now — 'tis  too  like  hers  ! 

Klmina  (falling  at  tiisffr'.)  Woe,  shame  and  woe 
An-  mi  me  in  their  might !—  forgive,  forgive  ! 

Gonznlrz  (starting  tip.)    JDoth  the   Moor  deem 

that  /  have  part,  or  share, 
Or  counsel  in  this  vileness  ? — Stay  me  not! 
Let  go  thy  hold — 'tis  poxverless  on  me  now — 
I   linger   here,  while   treason  is  at  work! 

[Exit  GONZALEZ. 

Elmina.  Ximena.  dost  thou  scorn  me  ? 

Ximena.  I  have  found 

In  mine  own  heart  too  much  of  feebleness, 
Hid,  beneath  many  foldings,  from  all  eyes 
But /Ss  whom  naught  can  blind; — to  dare  do  aught 
But  pity  thee,  dear  mother  I 

Elmina.  Blessings  light 

On  thy  fair  head,  my  gentle  child,  for  this  ! 
Thou  kind  and  merciful ! — My  soul  is  faint — 
Worn  with  long  strife! — Is  there  aught  else  to  <io. 
Or  suffer,  ere  we  die  1 — Oh  God !  my  sons  ! 
—I  have  betray'd  them  !— All  their  innocent  blood 
Is  on  my  soul ! 

Ximena.          How  shall  1  comfort  thee  ? 
— Oh  I  hark!  what  sounds  come  deepening  on  tne 

wind, 
So  full  of  solemn  hope! 

(j*  procession  of  JVuns  passing  across  the  Scene,  bear- 
ing relics,  and  chanting.) 

Chant.    A  sword  is  on  the  land  ! 
He  that  hears  down  young  tree  and  glorious  flower, 
Doath  is  gone  forth,  he  walks  the  wind  in  power! 

— Where  is  the  warrior's  hand  ? 
Our  steps  are  in  the  shadows  of  the  grave, 
Hear  us,  we  perish  !   Father,  hear,  and  save ! 

If,  in  the  days  of  song, 

The  days  of  gladness,  we  have  call'd  on  thee, 
When  mirthful  voices  rang  from  sea  to  sea, 

And  joyous  hearts  were  strong  ; 
Now,  that  alike  the  feeble  and  the  brave 
Must  cry,  "  We  perish  !"—  Father !  hear,  and  save  '. 

The  days  of  song  are  fled  ! 

The  winds  come  loaded,  wafting  dirge-notes  by, 
But  they  that  linger,  soon  unmourn'd  must  die  ; 

— The  dead  weep  not  the  dead  ' 
—Wilt  thou  forsake  us  'midst  the  stormy  wave? 
We  sink,  we  perish  ! — Father,  hear,  and  save  ! 

Helmet  and  lance  ar"  dust ! 
Is  not  the  strong  man  xxither'd  from  our  eye? 
The  arm  struck  down  that  held  our  banners  high  ? 

— Thine  is  our  spirit's  trust! 
Look  through  the  gathering  shadows  of  the  grave  ' 
Do  we  not  perish? — Father,  hear,  and  save  ! 

HERNANDEZ  enters. 
Elmina.  Why  comest  thou,  man  of vengeance?— 

What  have  I 

To  do  with  thee? — Am  I  lot  bow'd  enough  ? 
Thou  art  no  mourner's  comforter  ! 

Hernandez  Thy  lord 

Hath  sent  me  unto  thee.  Till  this  day's  task 
Be  closed,  thou  daughter  of  the  feeble  heart! 
He  bids  thee  seek  him  not,  but  la}  thy  woes 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


115 


Before  Heaven's  altar,  and  in  penitence 
Make  thy  soul's  peace  with  God. 

Elmin'a  Till  this  day's  talk 

Be  closed ! — there  is  strange  triumph  in  thine  eyes. 
Is  it  that  I  have  fallen  from  that  high  place 
Whereon  I  stood  in  fame  ? — But  I  can  fee) 
A  wild  and  bitter  pride  in  thus  being  past 
The  power  of  thy  dark  glance  ! — My  spirit  now 
Is  wound  about  by  one  sole  mighty  grief; 
Thy  scorn    hath  lost  its  sting. — Thou  may'st  re- 
proach— 

Hernandez.  I  coine  not  to  reproach  thee.  Heaven 

doth  work 

Ky  many  agencies;  and  in  its  hour 
There  is  no  insect  which  the  summer  breeze 
From  the  green  leaf  shakes  trembling,  but  may 

serve 

Its  deep  unsearchable  purposes,  as  well 
As  the  great  ocean,  or  t.h'  eternal  fires, 
Pent  in  earth's  caves! — Thou  hast  hut  speeded  that 
Which,  in  ih   infatuate  blindness  of  thy  heart, 
Thou  wouldst  have  trampled  o'er  nil  holy  ties, 
But  to  avert  one  day  ! 

Elmina.  My  senses  fail — 

Thou  saidst— speak  yet  again  ! — I  could  not  catch 
The  meaning  of  thy  words. 

Hernandez.  E'en  now  thy  lord 

Hath  sent  our  foes  defiance.     On  the  walls 
He  stands  in  conference  with  the  boastful  Moor, 
And  awful  strength  is  with  him.    Through  the 

blood 

Which,  this  day,  must  be  pour'd  in  sacrifice, 
Shall  Spain  be  free.     On  all  her  olive-hills 
Shall  men  set  up  the  battle-sign  of  fire. 
And  round  its  blaze,  at  midnight,  keep  the  sense 
Of  vengeance  wakeful  in  each  other's  hearts 
E'en  with  thy  children's  tale! 

Ximena.  Peace,  father!  peace  I 

Behold,  she  sinks! — the  storm  hath  done  its  work 
Upon  the  broken  reed.    Oh!  lend  thine  aid 
To  bear  her  hence.  [They  lead  her  aicay 

Scene — 9   Street   in  Valencia.    Several  Groups  of 

Citizens  and  Soldiers,  many  of  them  tying-  on  the 

steps  of  a  Church,     Arms  scattered  on  the  ground 

around  them. 

An  old  Citiifu.    The  air  is  sultry,  as  with  thun 

tier-clouds. 

I  left  my  desolate  home,  that  I  might  breathe 
More  freely  in  heaven's  face,  but  niy  heart  feels 
With  this  hot  gloom  o'erbiirthen'd.     I  have  now 
No  sons  to  lend  me.     Which  of  you,  kind  friends. 
Will  bring  the  old  man  water  from  the  fount. 
To  moisten  his  parch'd  lip?        [A  Citizen  goes  out. 

Second  Citizen.  This  wasting  siege,    ' 

Good  Father  Lopez,  hath  gone  hard  with  you  I 
'Tis  sad  to  hear  no  voices  through  the  house, 
Once  peopled  with  fair  sons! 

Third  Citizen.  Why,  better  thus, 

Than  to  he  haunted  with  their  famish'd  cries, 
E'en  in  your  very  dreams! 

Old  Citizen.  Heaven's  will  be  done! 

These  are  dark  times!  I  have  not  been  alone 
In  my  affliction. 

Third  Citizen  (with  bitterness.}  Why,  we  have  but 

this  thought 

Left  for  our  gloomy  comfort ! — And  'tis  well  I 
Ay,  let  the  balance  be  awhile  struck  even 
Between  the  noble's  palace  and  the  hut. 
Where  the  worn  peasant  sickens ! — They  that  beat 
The  humble  dead  unhononr'd  to  their  homes, 
Pass  now  i'  th'  street  no  lordly  bridal  train. 
With  its  exulting  music;  and  the  wretch 
Who  on  the  marble  steps  of  some  proud  hall 
Flings  himself  down  to  die.  in  his  last  need 
And  agony  of  famine,  doth  behold 
No  scornful  guests, with  their  long  purple  robes. 
To  the  banquet  sweeping  by.    Why.  this  is  just! 
Tnese  are  the  days  when  pomp  is  made  to  feel 
Its  human  mould ! 

Fourth  Citizen.     Heard  you  last  night  the  sound 
Of  Saint  lago's  bell  ? — How  sullenly 
Prom  the  great  tower  it  peal'd  ! 

Fifth  Citizen.  Ay,  and  'tis  said 


No  mortal  hand  was  near  when  so  it  seern'd 
To  shake  the  midnight  streets. 

Old  Citizen.  Too  well  I  know 

The  sound  of  coming  fate! — 'Tis  ever  thus 
When  death  is  on  his  way  to  make  it  night 
In  the  Cid's  ancient  house.  (5)  —  Oh!  there  are 

things 

In  this  strange  world  of  which  we  have  all  to  learn 
When  its  dark  bounds  are  pass'd.— Yon  bell,  un- 

touch'd 

(Save  by  hands  we  see  not)  still  doth  speak— 
—When  of  that  line  some  stately  head  is  mark'd— 
With  a  wild  hollow  peal,  at  dead  of  night. 
Rocking  Valencia's  towers.     I  have  heard  it  oft, 
Nor  known  its  warning  false. 

Fourth  Citizen.  And  will  our  chief 

Buy,  at  the  price  of  his  fair  children's  blood, 
A  few  more  days  of  pining  wretchedness 
For  this  forsaken  city  ? 

Old  Citizen.  Doubt  it  not ! 

—  But  with  that  ransom  he  may  purchase  still 
Deliverance  for  the  land  ? — And  yet  'tis  sad 
To  think  that  such  a  race,  with  all  its  fame. 
Should  pass  away  !— For  she,  his  daughter  too, 
Movf  s  upon  earth  as  some  bright  thing  whose  tirm 
To  sojourn  there  is  short. 

Fifth  Citizen.  Then  woe  for  us 

When  she  is  gone!— Her  voice— the  very  sound 
Of  her  soft  step  was  comfort  as  she  moved 
Through  the  still  house  of  mourning!— Who  like 

her 
Shall  give  us  hope  again  ? 

Old  Citizen.  Be  still !  she  comes. 

And  with  a  mien  how  changed  !— A  hurrying  step 
And  a  flush'd  cheek!— What  mav  this  bode?— Be 
still' 

XIMENA  enters,  with  Attendants  carrying  a  Banner. 

Ximena.  Men  of  Valencia!  in  an  hour  like  this. 
What  do  ye  here  ? 

J)  Citizen.  We  die! 

Ximena.  Brave  men  die  note 

Girt  for  the  toil,  as  travellers  suddenly 
Ky  the  dark  night  o'ertaken  on  their  way  ! 
These  days  require  such  death  ! — It  is  too  much 
Of  luxury  for  our  wild  and  angry  times. 
To  fold  the  mantle  round  us  ami  ;<>  sink 
From  life,  as  flowers  that  shut  up  silently, 
When  the  sun's  heat  doth  scorch  them  ! — Hear  ye 
not? 

A  Citizen.    Lady  !  what  wouldst  thou  with  us  ? 

Ximena.    Rise  and  arm  ! 
E'en  now  the  children  of  your  chief  are  led 
Forth  by  the  Moor  to  perish !— Shall  this  be  ? 
Shall  the  high  sound  of  such  a  name  be  hush'd, 
['  th'  land  to  which  for  ages  it  hath  been 
A  battle-word,  as  'twere  some  passing  note 
Of  shepherd  music  ? — Must  this  work  be  done, 
And  ye  lie  pining  here,  as  men  in  whom 
The  pulse  which  God  hath  made  for  noble  thought 
Can  so  be  thrill'd  no  longer? 

Citizens.  'Tis  even  so! 

Sickness,  and  toil,  and  grief,  have  breathed  upon  us. 
Our  hearts  beat  faint  and  low. 

Ximena.  Are  ye  so -poor 

Of  soul,  my  countrymen!  that  ye  can  draw 
Strength  from  no  deeper  source  than  that  which 

sends 

The  red  blood  mantling  through  the  joyous  veins 
And  gives  the  fleet  step  wings?— Why,  how  have 

age 

And  sensitive  womanhood  ere  now  endured. 
Through  pangs  of  searching  fire,  in   some  proud 

cause, 

Blessing  that  agony  ?— Think  ye  the  Power 
Which  bore  them  nobly  up,  as  if  to  teach 
The  torturer  where  eternal  Heaven  had  set 
Bounds  to  his  sway,  was  earthly,  of  this  earth, 
This  dull  mortality  ?— Nay,  then  look  on  me! 
Death's  touch  hath  mark'd  me,  and  I  stand  among 

you, 

As  one  whose  place,  i'  th'  sunshine  of  your  world, 
Shall  soon  he  left  to  fill!— I  say  the  breath 
Of  th'  incense,  floating  through  yon   fane,  shall 

scarce 
Pass  from  vour  path  before  me!  But  even  now. 


116 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I  have  that  within  roe,  kindling  through  the  dust, 
Which  from  all  time   halh  made   high  deeds  its 

voice 

And  token  to  the  nations ! — Look  on  me! 
Why  hath  Heaven  pour'd  forth  courage,  a.»  a  flame 
Wasting  the  womanish  heart,  which  must  beslill'd 
Yet  sooner  for  its  swift  consuming  brightness. 
If  not  to  shame  your  doubt,  and  your  despair. 
And  your  soul's  torpor  ? — Yet,  arise  and  arm  ! 
It  may  not  be  too  late. 

A  Citizen.  Why,  what  are  we. 

To  cope  with  hosts?— Thus  faint,  and  worn,  and 

few, 

O'ernumber'd  and  forsaken,  is't  for  us 
To  stand  against  the  mighty  ? 

Ximena.  And  for  whom 

Hath  He,  who  shakes  the  mighty  with  a  breath 
From  their  high  places,  made  the  fearfulness, 
And  ever-wakeful  presence  of  his  power. 
To  the  pale  startled  earth  most  manifest, 
But  fur  the  weak?— Was't  for  the  helm'd  and 

crown'd 

That  suns  were  stay'd  at  noonday? — Stormy  seas 
As  a  rill  parted  ? — Mail'd  archangels  sent 
To  wither  up  the  strength  of  kings  with  death? 
— I  tell  you.  if  these  marvels  have  been  done, 
Twas  for  the  wearied  and  the  oppress'd  of  men, 
They   needed  such! — And    generous    faith    hath 

power 

By  her  prevailing  spirit,  e'en  yet  to  work 
Deliverances,  whose  tale  shall  live  with  those 
Of  the  great  elder  time  ! — Be  of  good  heart ! 
If/io  is  forsaken  ? — He  that  gives  the  thought 
A  place  within  his  breast! — 'Tis  not  for  you. 
—Know  ye  this  banner? 

Citizens  (murmuring  to  eaeh  other.)     Is  she  not 

inspired  ? 
Doth  not  Heaven  call  us  by  her  fervent  voice? 

Ximena.    Know  ye  this  banner? 

Citizen*.  'Tis  the  Cid's. 

Ximena.     The  Cid's  I 

Who  breathes  that  name  but  in  th'  exulting  tone 
Which  the  heart  rings  to?— Why,  the  very  "wind, 
A*  it  swells  out  the  noble  standard's  fold. 
Hath  a  triumphant  sound  !— The  Cid's!— it  moved 
Even  as  a  sign  of  victory  through  the  land. 
From  the  free  skies  ne'er  stooping  to  a  foe! 

Old  Citizen.    Can  ye  still  pause,  my  brethren  ? — 

Oh !  that  youth 

Through  this  worn  frame  were   kindling  once 
again  ! 

Ximena.  Ye  linger  still !— Upon  this  very  air. 
He  that  was  born  in  happy  hour  for  Spain,  (6) 
Pour'd   forth  his  conquering  spirit! — 'Twas  the 

breeze 
From  your  own  mountains  which  came  down  to 

wave 

This  banner  of  his  battles,  as  it  droop'd 
Above  the  champion's  death-bed.     Nor  even  then 
Its  tale  of  glory  closed.— They  made  no  moan 
O'er  the  dead  hero,  and  no  dirge  was  sung,  (7) 
But  the  deep  tambour  arid  shrill  horn  of  war 
Told  when  the  mighty  pass'd ! — They  wrapt  him 

not 
With  the  pale  shroud,  but  braced  the  warrior's 

form 

In  war  array,  and  on  his  barbed  steed, 
As  for  a  triumph,  rear'd  him  ;  marching  forth 
In  the  hush'd  midnight  from  Valencia's  walls, 
Beleaguer'd  then  as  now.     All  silently 
The  stately  funeral  moved : — but  who  was  he 
That  follow'd,  charging  on  the  tall  white  horse, 
And  with  the  solemn  standard,  'road  and  pale. 
Waving  in  sheets  of  snow-light  ?— Anu  the  cross, 
Th»  bloody  cross,  far- blazing  from  his  shield. 
And  the  fierce  meteor-sword  ?  They  fled,  they  fled 
The  kings  of  Afric,  with  their  countless  hosts, 
Were  dust  in  his  red  path  !— The  scimetar 
Was  shiver'd  as  a  reed  .—For  in  that  hour 
Th-  warrior  saint  that  keeps  the  watch  for  Spain, 
Was  arm'd  betimes !— And  o'er  that  riery  field 
The  Cid's  high  banner  stream'd  till  joyously, 
For  still  its  lord  was  there  ! 

Citizens  (rising  tumultuous!*/.)   Even  unto  death 
Again  it  shall  be  follow'd  ! 

Ximena.  Will  he  see 


The  noble  stem  hewn  down,  the  beacon-light 
Which  his  high  house  for  ages  o'er  the  land 
Hnth    shone    through   cloud    and    storm,    thus 

quench'd  at  once? 

Will  he  not  aid  his  children  in  the  hour 
Of  this  their  uttermost  peril  ?— Awful  power 
Is  with  the  holy  dead,  and  there  are  times 
When  the  tomb  hath  no  chain  they  cannot  burst 
—Is  it  a  thing  forgotten,  how  he  woke 
From  its  deep  rest  of  old,  remembering  Spain 
In  her  great  danger  ?— At  the  night's  mid-watch 
How  Leon  started,  when  the  sound  was  heard 
That  shook  her  dark  and  hollow-echoing  streets, 
As  with  the  heavy  tramp  of  steel  clad  men, 
By   thousands  marching    through! — For  he   had 

risen  ! 

The  Campeador  was  on  his  march  again,  , 

And  in  his  arms,  and  follow'd  by  his  hosts 
Of  shadowy  spearmen  ! — He  had  lef.  the  world 
From  which  we  are  dimly  parted,  and  gone  forth 
And  call'd  his  buried  warriors  from  their  sleep, 
fathering  them  round  him  to  deliver  Sp.-iin  ; 
For  Afric  was  upon  her!— Morning  broke — 
Day  rush'd  through  clouds  of  battle; — but  at  eve 
Oiir  God  had  trinmph'd,  and  the  rescued  land 
Sent  up  a  shout  of  victory  from  the  field, 
That  rock'd  her  ancient  mountains. 

The  Citizens.  Arm!  to  arms 

On  to  our  chief!  We  have  streneth  within  us  ye* 
To  die  with  our  blood  roused !  Now.  be  the  word 
For  the  Cid's  house !  \  They  begirt  to  arm  themselves 

Ximena.  Ye  know  his  battle-song. 

The  old   rude  strain  wherewith  his  bands  went 

forth 
To  strike  down  Paynim  swords !      (She  tingt.) 


THE   CID'S   BATTI.K   BONO. 

The  Monr  is  on  his  way! 
With  the  tambour-peal  and' the  techir-shont, 
And  the  horn  o'er  tlie  blue  seas  ringing  out, 

Hi;  hath  marshall'd  his  dark  array! 

Shout  through  the  vine-clad  land  ! 
Thai  h--r  sons  on  all  tl>  -ir  hills  may  hear, 
Anil  sii;tr|>,-n  the  point  of  the  red  xvolf-spear. 

And  the  sword  for  tlie  brave  man's  hand! 

,  The  Citizens  join  in  the  song,  while  they  continut 
arming  themselves.) 

Banners  are  in  lite  field! 
The  chief  must  rise  from  his  joyous  board. 
And  turn  from  the  feast  ere  the  wine  be  pour'd. 

And  take  up  Ins  father's  shield  1 

The  Moor  is  on  his  way! 
Let  the  peasant  leave  his  olive-ground, 
And  the  goats  roam  wild  through  the  pine-woods 
round! 

—There  is  nobler  work  to-day ! 

Send  forth  the  trumpet's  call! 
Till  the  bridegroom  cast  the  goblet  down. 
And  the  marriage-rone  and  the  flowery  crown, 

And  arm  in  the  banquet-hall! 

And  stay  the  funeral-train) 
Rid  tin*  chanted  mass  be  hush'd  awhile, 
And  the  bier  laid  down  in  tin;  holy  aisle. 

And  the  mourners  girt  for  Spain  I 

(They  take  up  the  banner  and  follow  XIMENA  Mel 
T'ifir  voices  art  heard  gradually  dying  owaj  at  i 
distance.) 

Ere  night,  must  swords  be  red ! 
It  is  not  an  hour  for  knells  and  tears, 
But  for  helmets  braced,  and  serried  spears  I 

To-ioorrow  for  the  dead  1 

The  Cid  is  in  array ! 

His  steed  is  barb'd,  his  plume  waves  high, 
His  banner  is  up  in  the  sunny  sky. 

Now,  joy  for  the  Cross  to-day  I 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


117 


Scene— The  Walls  of  the  City.     The  Plain  beneath, 
vitk  the  Moorish  Camp  and  Army. 

GONZALEZ,  GARCIAS,  HERNANDEZ. 
(A  tcild  sound  of  Moorish  JUusic  heard  from  below.) 

Hernandez.    What  notes  are  these,  in  their  deep 

mournfulness 
So  strangely  wild  1 

Garcias.  "Tie  the  shrill  melody 

Of  the  Moor's  ancient  death-song.    Well  I  know 
The  rude  barbaric  sound;  but,  till  this  hour, 
It  seem'd  not  fearful.    Now,  a  shuddering  chill 
Comes  o'er  me  with  its  tones.— Lo!  from  yon  tent 
They  lead  the  noble  boys! 

Hernandez.  The  young,  and  pure, 

And  beautiful  victims'— 'T  is  on  things  like  these 
We  cast  our  hearts  i'fi  wild  idolatry, 
Sowing  the  winds  with  hope!— Yet  this  is  well. 
Thus  brightly  crown'd  with  life's  most  gorgeous 

flowers. 

And  all  unblemish'd,  earth  should  offer  up 
Her  treasures  unto  Heaven! 

Garcias  (to  Gonzalez.)    My  chief,  the  Moor 
Hath  led  your  children  forth. 

Gonzalez  (starting.)  Are  my  sons  there  ? 

I  knew  they  could  not  perish ;  for  yon  Heaven 
Would  ne'er  behold  it!— Where  is  he  that  said 
I  was  no  more  a  father?— They  look  changed— 
Pallid  and  worn,  as  from  a  prison-house ! 
Or  is't  mine  eye  sees  dimly  ?— But  their  steps 
Seem  heavy,  as  with  pain— I  hear  the  clank- 
On  God!  their  limbs  are  fetter'd! 

Abdullah,  (earning  forward  beneath    the    icallt.) 

Christian,  look 

Once  more  upon  thy  children.  There  is  yet 
One  moment  for  the  trembling  of  the  sword. 
Their  doom  is  still  with  thee. 

Gonzalez.  Why  should  this  man 

S.i  mock  us  with  the  semblance  of  our  kind? 
—  Moor!  Moor!  thou  dost  too  daringly  provoke, 
In  thy  bold  cruelty,  th"  all-judging  One, 
Who  visits  fur  such  tlii TICS!— Hast  thou  no  sense 
Of  thy  frail  nature?— 'Twill  be  taught  thee  yet, 
And  darkly  shall  the  anguish  of  my  soul, 
Darkly  and  heavily,  pour  itself  on  thine, 
When  thou  shall  cry  for  mercy  from  the  dust, 
And  he  denied! 

Abdullah.  Nay,  is  it  not  thyself 

That  hast  no  mercy  and  no  love  within  thee? 
These  are  thy  sons,  the  nurslings  of  thy  house; 
8pr:ak  !  must  they  live  or  die  ? 

Gonzalez  (in  violent  emotion.)  Is  it  Heaven's  will 
To  try  the  dust  it  kindles  for  a  day. 
With  infinite  agony!— How  have  I  drawn 
This  chastening    on    my  head!  — They    tiloom'd 

around  me. 

And  my  heart  grew  too  fearless  in  its  joy. 
Glorying  in  their  bright  promise! — If  we  fall, 
Is  there  no  pardon  for  our  feebleness? 

(Hernandez,  without  speaking,  holds  up  a  Cross 
before  Mm.) 

Abdullah.  Speak ! 

Gonzalez  (snatckinff  the  Cross,  and  lifting  it  up.) 
Let  the  earth  be  shaken  through  its  depths. 
But  this  must  triumph! 

Mdullt.lt  (caldly.)        Be  it  as  thou  wilt. 
— Unsheathe  the  scimet'arl  [To  his  Guards. 

Garcias  (to  Gonzalez  )      Away,  my  chief! 
This  is  your  place  no  longer.    There  are  things 
No  human  heart,  though  battle-proof  as  yours, 
Uuiuadderrd  may  sustain. 

Gonzalez.  Be  still !  I  have  now 

No  place  on  earth  but  this! 

Alphonso  (from  beneath.)    Men  !  give  me  way, 
That  I  may  speak  forth  once  before  I  die ! 

Gordon.   The  princely  boy !— How  gallantly  his 

brow 
Wears  its  high  nature  in  the  face  of  death! 

Jllphonso.  Father! 

Gonzalez.    My  son  1  my  Ron  I— mine  eldest-horn! 

Alphonso.    Stay  but  upon  the  ramparts ! — Tear 

thou  not—- 
There is  eood  courage  in  me :  oh !  my  fnthei  1 
I  will  not  shame  thee!— only  let  me  fall 


Knowing  thine  eye  looks  proudly  on  thy  child, 
So  shall  my  heart  have  strength. 

Gonzalez.  Would,  would  to  God, 

That  I  might  die  for  thee,  my  noble  boy  1 
Alphonso,  my  fair  son  ! 

Alpltonso.  Could  I  have  lived, 

I  might  have  been  a  warrior!— Now,  farewell  I 
But  look  upon  me  still !— I  will  not  blench 
When  the  keen  sabre  flashes.— Mark  me  well  1 
Mine  eyelid  shall  not  quiver  as  it  falls, 
So  thou  wilt  look  upon  me! 

Garcias  (to  Gonzalez.)          Nay,  my  lord ! 
We  must  be  gone !— thou  canst  not  bear  it ! 

Gonzalez.  Peace! 

— Who  hath  told  thee  how  much  man's  heart  can 

bear? 

—Lend  me  thine  arm— my  brain  whirls  fearfully— 
How  thick  the  shades  close  round ! — my  boy '  my 

boy! 
Where  art  thou  in  this  gloom  ? 

Garcias.  Let  us  go  hence. 

This  is  a  dreadful  moment! 

Gonzalez.  Hush  !— what  saidst  thou  ? 

Now  let  me  look  on  him  !— Dost  thou  see  aught 
Through  the  dull  mist  that  wraps  us  ? 

Gareias.  \  behold— 

Oh!  for  a  thousand  Spaniards  to  rush  down — 

Gonzalez.    Thou  seest— My  heart  stands  still  to 

hear  thee  speak  ! 

—  There  seems  a  fearful  hush  upon  the  air, 
As  't  were  the  dead  of  night ! 

Garcias.  The  hosts  have  closed 

Around  the  spot  in  stillness.    Through  the  spears, 
Ranged  thick  and  motionless,  I  see  him  not; 
— But  now 

Gonzalez.   He  bade  me  keep  mine  eye  upon  him, 
Arid  all  is  darkness  round  me ! — Now  ? 

Garcias.  A  sword, 

A  sword,  springs  upward,  like  a  lightning  burst. 
Through  the  dark   serried   mass !  —  Its  cold  blue 

glare 
ts  wavering  to  and  fro — 'tis  vanish'd — hark  ! 

Gonzalez.  I  heard  it,  yes !— I  heard  the  dull  dead 

sound 

That  heavily  broke  the  silence!— Didst  thou  speak? 
— I  lost  thy  words— come  nearer ! 

Garcias.  'T  was — 't  is  past  !— 

The  sword  fell  then  t 

Hernandez  (with  exultation.)    Flow  forth,  thou 

noble  blood  ! 

Fount  of  Spain's  ransom  and  deliverance,  flow 
Uncheck'd    and    brightly   forth!  — Thou    kingly 

stream  ! 

Blood  of  our  heroes  I  blood  of  martyrdom  I 
Which  through  so  many  warrior-hearts  hast  pour'd 
Thy  Aery  currents,  and  hast  made  our  hills 
Free,  by  thine  own  free  offering  I— Bathe  the  land, 
But  there  thou  shall  not  sink  I— Our  very  air 
Shall  take  thy  colouring,  and  our  loaded  skies 
O'er  th'  infidel  hang  dark  and  ominous, 
With  battle-hues  of  thee !— And  thy  deep  voice 
Rising  above  them  to  the  judgment-seat 
Shall  call  a  burst  of  gather'd  vengeance  down. 
To  sweep  th'  oppressor  from  us  1 — For  thy  wave 
Hath  made  his  guilt  run  o'er! 

Gonzalez  (endeavouring  to  rouse  himself .)  'Tis  all 

a  dream  I 

There  is  not  one— no  hand  on  earth  could  harm 
That  fair  boy's  graceful  head!— Why  look  you 
thus  I 

Abdullah  (pointing  to  Carlos.)   Christian     e'en 
yel  ihou  hast  a  son  ! 

Gonzalez.  E'en  yet ! 

Carlos.  My  father!  take  me  from  these  fearful 

men  1 
Wilt  thou  nol  save  me,  father? 

Gonzalez  (attempting  to  unsheathe  his  sword.)     It 

the  strength 
From  mine  arm  shivcr'd  ?    Garcias,  follow  me  ! 

Garcias.  Whither,  my  chief? 

Gonzalez.  Why,  we  can  die  as  well 

On  yonder  plain, — ay,  a  sppar's  thrust  will  do 
The  little  that  our  misery  doth  require. 
Sooner  than  e'er  this  anguish  !     Life  is  best 
Thrown  from  us  in  such  moments. 

[  Voices  heard  at  a  distant*. 


118 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS 


Hush  1  what  strain 


Hernandez. 
floats  on  the  wind? 

Oarcias.  "Tis  the  fid's  battle-song  t 

What  marvel  naih  been  wrought  ? 

f  Voices  approaching  heard  in  chorus. 
The  Moor  is  on  his  way  ! 
With  the  tambour  peal  and  the  tecbir-shnut. 
And  the  horn  o'er  the  blue  seas  ringing  out, 
He  hath  inarsliall'd  his  dark  array! 

XIMENA  enters,  foil/need  by  the  CITIZENS,  with  the 
Banner. 

Ximena.    Is  it  too  late  ? — My  father,  these  an; 

men 

Through  life  and  death  prepared  to  follow  thee 
Beneath  this  banner! — Is  their  zeal  too  late. 
— -Ob  \  there's  a  fearful  history  on  thy  brow  ' 
Wi>at  ha* i  thou  seen  ? 

Oarcias.  It  is  not  all  too  late 

Ximena.    My  brothers ! 

Hernandez.  All  is  well. 

(TbGARciAS.)    Hush!  would'st  thou  chill 
That  which  hath  sprung  within  them,  as  a  flame 
From  lh'  altar-embers  mounts  in  sudden  bright- 
ness ? 

I  say,  'tis  not  too  late,  ye  men  of  Spain  ! 
On  to  the  rescue! 

Ximena.  Bless  me,  oh,  my  father ! 

And  I  will  hence,  to  aid  thee  with  my  prayers. 
Sending  my  spirit  with  thee  through  the  storm, 
Lit  up  by  flashing  swords ! 

Gonzalez  (falling  on  her  neck.)  Hath  aught  been 

spared  ? 

Am  I  not  all  bereft? — Thou'rt  left  me  still ! 
Mine  own,  my  loveliest  one,  thou'rt  left  me  still! 
Farewell !— thy  father's  blessing,  and  thy  God's, 
Be  with  thee,  my  Ximena. 

Ximena.  Fare  thee  well  I 

If,  ere  thy  steps  turn  homeward  from  the  field, 
Tin-  voice  is  hush'd  that  still  hath  welcomed  thee. 
Think  of  me  in  thy  victory ! 

Hernandez.  Pnace  !  no  more  ! 

This  is  no  time  to  melt  our  nature  down 
To  a  soft  stream  of  tears.— Be  of  strong  heart  I 
Give  me  the  banner  I    Swell  the  song  again  1 

THE   CITIZENS. 

Ere  night,  must  swords  be  red  t 
It  is  not  an  hour  for  knells  and  tears, 
But  for  helmets  braced  and  serried  spears! 

To-morrow  for  the  dead !    [Exeunt  omnet. 


Scene— Before  the  Altar  of  a  Churrh. 
EI.MIN  A  rises  from  the  steps  of  the  Altar. 

Elmina.    The  clouds  are  fearful  that  o'erhang 

thy  ways, 

Oh,  thou  mysterious  Heaven ! — Tt  cannot  be 
That  I  have  drawn  the  vials  of  thy  wrath, 
To  burst  upon  me  through  the  lifting  up 
Of  a  proud  heart,  elate  in  happiness ! 
No !  in  my  day's  full  noon,  for  me  life's  flowers 
But  wreathed  a  cup  of  trembling ;  and  the  love. 
The  boundless  love,  my  spirit  was  form'd  to  bear, 
Hath  ever,  in  its  place  of  silence,  been 
A  trouble  and  a  shadow,  tinging  thought 
With  hiu;s  too  deep  for  joy ! — I  never  look'd 
On  my  fair  children,  in  their  buoyant  mirth. 
Or  sunny  sleep,  when  all  the  gentle  air 
Seem'd  glowing  with  their  quiet  blessedness, 
But  o'er  my  soul  there  came  a  shuddering  sense 
Of  earth,  and  its  pale  changes;  even  like  that 
Which  vaguely  mingles  with  our  glorious  dreams, 
\  restless  and  disturbing  consciousness 
That  the  bright  things  must  fade !— How  have  1 

shrunk 

From  the  dull  murmur  of  th'  unquiet  voice, 
With  its  low  tokens  of  mortality. 
Till  my  heart  fainted  'midst  their  smiles!— their 

smiles! 
—Where  are  those  glad  looks  now  ? — Could  they 

no  down 
With  all  their  joyous  light,  that  seem'd  not  earth's 


To  the    cold  grave?  — My   children! — RighteoiM 

Heaven  T 

There  floats  a  dark  remembrance  o'er  my  brain 
Of  one  who  told  me,  with  relentless  eye, 
That  this  should  be  the  hour! 

XIMENA  enters. 

Ximena.  They  are  gone  forth 

Unto  the  rescue— strong  in  heart  and  hope, 
Faithful,  though  few  ! — My  mother,  let  thy  prayers 
Call  on  the  land's  good  saints  to  lift  once  more 
The  sword  and  cross  that  sweep  the  field  for  Spain, 
As  in  old  battle  ;  so  thine  arms  e'en  yet 
May  clasp  thy  sons ! — For  me,  my  part  is  done ! 
The  flame,  which  dimly  might  have  lingered  yet 
A  little  while,  hath  gather'd  all  its  rays 
Brightly  to  sink  at  once!  and  it  is  well ! 
The  shadows  are  around  me;  to  thy  heart 
Fold  me.  that  I  may  die. 

Elmina.  My  child  !— What  dream 

Is  on  thy  soul? — E'en  now  thine  aspect  wears 
Life's  brightest  inspiration  ! 

Ximena.  Death's ! 

Elmina.  Away ! 

Thine  eye  hath  starry  clearness,  and  thy  cheek 
Doth  glow  beneath  it  with  a  richer  hue 
Than  ting'd  its  earliest  flower  ! 

Ximena.  It  well  may  be! 

There  are  far  deeper  and  far  warmer  hues 
Than  those  which  draw  their  colouring  from  the 

founts 
Of  youth,  or  health,  or  hope. 

Elmina.  Nay,  speak  not  thus  t 

There's  that  about  thee  shining  which  would  send 
E'en  through  my  heart  a  sunny  glow  of  joy, 
Wer't  not  for  these  sad  words.    The  dim  cold  air 
And  solemn  light,  which  wrap  these  tombs  and 

shrines 

As  a  pale  gleaming  shroud,  seem  kindled  up 
With  a  young  spirit  of  ethereal  hope 
Caught  from  thy  mien  !— Oh  no  !  this  is  not  death! 

Ximena.    Why  should  not  He,  whose  touch  dis 

«olves  our  chain. 

Put  on  his  robes  of  beauty  when  he  comes 
As  a  deliverer?— He  hath  many  forms, 
They  should  not  all  be  fearful !— If  his  call 
Be  but  our  gathering  to  that  distant  land 
For  whose  sweet  waters  we  have  pined  with 

thirst. 

Why  should  not  its  prophetic  sense  be  borne 
Into  the  heart's  deep  stillness,  with  a  breath 
Of  summer-winds,  a  voice  of  melody. 
Solemn,  yet  lovely  ? — Mother  !  I  depart ! 
— Be  it  thy  comfort,  in  the  after-days. 
That  thou  hast  seen  me  thus ! 

Elmina.  Distract  me  not 

With  such  wild  fears!  Can  I  bear  on  with  life 
When  thou  art  gone  ?— Thy  voice,  thy  step,  thy 

smile, 

Pass'd  from  my  path? — Alas !  even  now  thine  eye 
Is  changed— thy  cheek  is  fading  ! 

Ximena.  Ay,  the  clouds 

Of  the  dim  hour  are  gathering  o'er  my  sight, 
And  yet  I  fear  not,  for  the  God  of  Help 
Comes  in  that  quiet  darkness  ! — It  may  soothe 
Thy  woes,  my  mother,  if  I  tell  thee  now, 
With  what  glad  calmness  I  behold  the  veil 
Falling  between  me  and  the  world,  wherein 
My  henrt  so  ill  hath  rested. 

Elmina.  Thine ! 

Ximena.  Rejoice 

For  her,  that,  when  the  garland  of  her  life 
Was  blighted,  and  the  springs  of  hope  were  dried 
Received  her  summons  hence ;  and  had  no  time, 
Bearing  the  canker  at  th'  impatient  heart. 
To  wither,  sorrowing  for  that  gift  of  Heaven, 
Which  lent  one  moment  of  existence  light, 
That  dimm'd  the  rest  for  ever ! 

Elmina.  How  is  this  ? 

My  child,  what  mean'st  thou  ? 

Ximena.  Mother !  I  have  loved 

And  been  belovwl ! — the  sunbeam  of  an  hour, 
Which  gave  life's  hidden  treasures  to  mine  eye. 
As  they  lay  shining  in  their  secret  founts, 
Went  out,  and  left  them  colourless.— 'Tis  past— 
And  what  remains  on  earth*— tha  raiu!>o\v  mist 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


119 


Through  which  I  gazed,  hath  melted,  and  my  sight 
Is  clear'd  to  look  on  all  things  as  they  are  ! 
— But  this  is  far  too  mournful  ! — Life's  dark  gift 
Hath  fallen  too  early  and  too  cold  upon  me  ! 
— Therefore  I  would  go  hence  ! 

Elmina.  And  thou  hast  loved 

Unknown 

Ximcna.          Oh  !  pardon,  pardon  that  I  veil'd 
My  thoughts  from  thee !— But  thou  hadst  woes 

enough, 

And  mine  came  o'er  me  when  thy  soul  had  need 
Of  more  than  mortal  strength  !— For  I  had  scarce 
Given  the  deep  consciousness  that  I  was  loved 
A  treasure's  place  within  my  secret  heart, 
When  earth's  brief  joy  went  from  me  ! 

'Twas  at  morn 

I  saw  the  warriors  to  their  field  go  forth, 
And  he— my  chosen — was  there  among  the  rest, 
With  his  young,  glorious  brow  ! — I  look'd  again — 
The  strife  grew  dark  beneath  me— but  his  plume 
Waved  free  above  the  lances. — Yet  again — 
It  had  gone  down  !  and  steeds  were  trampling  o'er 
The  spot  to  which  mine  eyes  were  riveted 
Till  blinded  by  th'  intenseness  of  their  gaze! 
— And  then— at  last — I  hurried  to  the  gate, 
And  met  him  there! — I  met  him ! — on  his  shield, 
And  with  his  cloven  helm,  and  shiver'd  sword, 
And  dark  hair  steep'd  in  blood! — They  bore  him 

past- 
Mother!  I  saw  his  face!— Oh!  such  a  death 
Works  fearful  changes  on  the  fair  of  earth, 
The  pride  of  woman's  eye  I 

Elmina.  Sweet  daughter,  peace! 

Wake  not  the  dark  remembrance ;  for  thy  frame — 

Ximcna.    There  will  be  peace  ere  long.    I  shut 

my  heart 

E'en  as  a  tomb,  o'er  that  lone  silent  grief, 
That  I  might  spare  it  thee! — But  now  the  hour 
Is  come  when  that  which  would  have  pierced  thy 

soul 

Shall  be  its  healing  balm.  Oh!  weep  thou  not. 
Save  with  a  gentle  sorrow! 

Klmina.  Must  it  be? 

Art  thou  indeed  to  leave  me  1 

Ximcna  (exulting  I  y.)  Be  thou  glad  I 

I  say,  rejoice  above  thy  favour'd  child  I 
Jny  for  the  soldier,  wh  ;n  his  field  is  fought; 
Joy  for  the  peasant,  when  his  vintage-task 
Is  closed  at  eve! — But  most  of  all  for  her, 
Who,  when  her  life  changed  its  glittering  robea 
For  the  dull  jrarb  of  sorrow,  which  doth  cling 
So  heavily  around  the  journeyers  on. 
Cast  down  its  weight — and  slept! 

Elmina.  Alas!  thine  eye 

Is  wand^rin?— yet  how  brightly  !— IP  this  death. 
Or  some  high  wondrous  vision  ? — Speak,  my  child  • 
How  is  it  witli  thee  now  ? 

Ximena  (wildly.)  I  see  it  still! 

'Tis  floating,  like  a  glorious  cloud  on  high, 
My  father's  banner! — HearVt  thou  not  n  sound  ? 
The  trumpet  of  Castile  ?— Praise,  praise  to  Hea- 
ven! 
—Now  may  the  weary  rest!— Be  still!— Who  calls 

The  night  so  fearful  ? [She  dies. 

Elmina.  No !  she  is  not  dead ! 

— Ximena  !  speak  to  me! — Oh!  yet  a  tone 
From  that  sweet  voice,  that  I  may  gather  in 
One  more  remembrance  of  its  lovely  sound, 
Ere  the  deep  silence  fall!— What !  is  all  hush'd  ? 
—No,  no!— it  cannot  be!— How  should  we  bear 
The  dark  misgivings  of  our  souls,  if  Heaven 
Left  not  such  beings  with  us? — But  is  this 
Her  wonted  look?— too  sad  a  quiet  lies 
On  its  dim  fearful  beauty  !— Speak,  Ximena! 
Sneak  !-my  heart  dies  within  me!— She  is  gone. 
With  all  her  blessed  smiles !— My  child  !  my  child ! 
Where  art  thou  ? — Where  is  that  which  answer'd 

me. 
From    thy   soft-shining   eyes! — Hush!  doth    she 

move? 

—One  light  lock  seem'd  to  tremble  on  her  brow, 
As  a  pulse  throbh'd  beneath  ; — 'twas  but  the  voice 
Of  my  despair  that  stirr'd  it!— She  is  gone! 

[SA«  throws  herself  on  the  body.  Gonzalez  enters 
alone,  and  wounded. 


Elmina  (rising  as  he  approaches.)  I  must  not  nou 

be  scorn'd ! — No,  not  a  look, 
A  whisper  of  reproach ! — Behold  my  woe ! 
Thou  canst  not  scorn  me  now! 

Gon-.alez.  Hast  thou  heard  all? 

Elmina.    Thy  daughter  on  my  bosom  laid  her 

head, 

And  pass'd  away  to  rest. — Behold  her  there, 
Even  such  as  death  hath  made  her!  (8) 

Gonzalez   (bending  over  Ximena's   body.)    Thou 

art  gone 

A  little  while  before  me,  oh,  my  child ! 
Why  should  the  traveller  weep  to  part  with  those 
That  scarce   an   hour   will  reach  their  promised 

land 

Ere  he  too  cast  his  pilgrim  staff"  away, 
And  spread  his  couch  beside  them  ? 

Elmina.  Must  it  be 

Henceforth  enough  that  once  a  thing  so  fair 
Mad  its  bright  place  among  us  ? — Is  this  all, 
Lf"ft  for  the  years  to  come? — We  will  not  stay  ! 
Earth's  chain  each  hour  grows  weaker. 

Gonzalez  (still gazing  upon  Ximena.)    And  thou'rt 

laid 

To  slumber  in  the  shadow,  blessed  child  I 
Of  a  yet  stainless  altar,  and  beside 
A  sainted  warrior's  tomb! — Oh,  fitting  place 
For  thee  to  yield  thy  pure  heroic  son  I 
Back  unto  him  that  gave  it!— And  thy  cheek 
Yet  smiles  in  its  bright  paleness! 

Elmina.  Hadst  thou  seen 

The  look  with  which  she  pass'd  ! 

Gonzalez  (still   bending    over   her.)    Why,  'tis 

almost 

Like  joy  to  view  thy  heautiful  repose  ! 
The  faded  image  of  that  perfect  calm 
Floats,  e'en  as  long-forgotten  music,  hack 
Into  my  weary  heart !— No  dark  wild  spot 
On  thy  clear  brow  doth  tell  of  bloody  hands 
That  quench'd  young  life  by  violence!— We  have 

seen 

Ton  tnnrh  of  horror,  in  one  crowded  hour. 
To  weep  for  aught,  so  gently  gather'd  hence  1 
— Oh  1  man  leaves  other  traces ! 

Elmina  (starting  suddenly.)     It  returns 
On  my  bewilder'd  soul  1 — Went  ye  not  forth 
Unto  the  rescue  ? — And  thou'rt  here  alone  I 
— Where  are  my  sons  ? 
Gonzalez  (solemnly)        We  were  too  late  1 
Elmina.  Too  late  I 

Hast  thou  naught  else  to  tell  me  ? 

Gonzalez.  I  brought  back 

From  that  last  field  the  banner  of  my  sires, 
And  my  own  death-wound. 
Elmina.  Thine  I 

Gonzalez.  Another  hour 

Shall  hush  its  throbs  for  ever.    I  go  hence. 

And  with  me 

Elmina.        No  I — Man  could  not  lift  his  hands — 
Where  hast  thou  left  thy  sons  ? 

Gonzalez.  I  ha.ee  no  song. 

Elmina.  What  hast  thou  said  ? 
Gonzalez.  That  now  there  lives  not  one 

To  wear  the  glory  of  mine  ancient  house, 
When  I  am  gone  to  rest. 

Elmina  (throwing   herself  on   the  ground,    and 
speaking  in  a  low  hurried  voice.)  In  one  brief  hour, 

all  gone!— and  such  a  death  ! 
—I    see  their  blood  gush  forth!— their  giaceful 

heads 

Take  the  dark  vision  from  me,  oh  my  God  ! 
And  such  a  death  for  them ! — I  was  not  there  I — 
They  were  but  mine  in  beauty  and  in  joy. 
Not  in  that  mortal  anguish  !— Ah,  all  gone  ! 
—Why  should  I  struggle  more  ?— What  f*   thii 

Power 

Against  whose  might,  on  all  sides  pressing  us. 
We  strive  with  fierce  impatience,  which  but  lava 
Our  own  frail  spirit  prostrate  ? 

(After  a  long  pause.)  Now  I  kno 

Thy  hand,  my  God  1— and  they  are  soonest  crush'd 
That  most  withstand  it !— I  resist  no  more. 
(She  rises.)— A  light,  a  light  springs  up  frc/n  grief 
and  death, 


320 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WOTCKS. 


WhiiT  \vith  its  solemn  radiance  doth  reveal 
Why  VA-  have  thus  been  tried ! 

Garwfez.  Then  I  may  still 

Fix  my  last  look  on  thee,  in  holy  love. 
Farting,  but  yet  with  hope. 

Elmina  (falling  at  his  feet.}    Canst  thou  forgive? 
—Oh,  1  have  driven  the  arrow  to  thy  heart, 
That  should  have  buried  it  within  mint*  own, 
And  borne  the  pang  in  silence  !— I  have  cast 
Thy  lifV*  fair  honour,  in  my  wild  despair. 
As  an  unva  ned  gem  upon  the  waves. 
Whence  thou  hast  snatch'd  it  back,  to  bear  from 

earth, 

All  stainless,  on  thy  breast— Well  hast  thou  done— 
But  I— canst  thou  forgive? 

Gonzalez.  Within  (his  hour 

J  have  stooil  upon  that  verge  whence  mortals  fall, 
And  learn'd  how  'tis  with  one  whose  sight  grows 

dim, 

And  whose  foot  trembles  on  the  gulf's  dark  side, 
—Death  purifies  all  feeling— We  will  part 
In  pity  and  in  love. 

Elmina.  Death  !— And  thou  too 

Art  on  thy  way  ! — Oh.  joy  for  thee,  hi»h  heart  I 
Glory  and  joy  for  thoe !— The  day  is  closed. 
And  well  ami  nohiy  hast  thou  borne  thyself 
Through  its  long  tattle-toils,  though  many  swordi 
Have  enter'd  thine  own  soul !— But  on  my  head 
Recoil  the  fierce  invokings  of  despair. 
And  I  am  left  far  distanced  in  the  race. 
The  lonely  one  of  earth  I—Ay,  this  is  just  • 
I  am  not  worthy  thiit  upon  my  breast 
In  this,  thine  hour  of  victory,  thou  shouldst  yield 
Tliv  spirit  unto  God. 

Gonzalez.  Thou  art !  thou  art ! 

Oh  !  a  life's  love,  a  heart's  long  faithfulness. 
E'en  in  the  presence  of  eternal  things. 
Wearing  their  chasten'd  beauty  all  undimra'd, 
Assert  their  lofty  claims;  and  these  are  not 
For  one  dark  hour  to  cancel !— We  are  here 
J-tefore  that  altar  which  received  the  vows 
Of  our  unbroken  youth,  and  meet  it  is 
For  such  a  witness  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 
And  in  the  face  of  death,  whose  shadowy  arm 
Tomes  dim  between  us,  to  regard  tir  exchange 
Of  our  tried  hearts'  forgiveness, — Who  are  they. 
Thai  in  one  path  have  journey 'd,  needing  not 
Forgiveness  at  its  close  ? 

(-•?  Citizen  enters  hastily.) 

Citizen.  The  Moors  !  the  Moors  ! 

Gonzalez.  How !  is  the  city  storm'd  ? 

Oh  !  righteous  Heaven  !— for  this  I  look'd  not  yet ! 
Huth  all  been  done  in  vain  ? — Why,  then  'tis  time 
For  prayer,  and  then  to  rest  I 

Citizen.  The  sun  shall  set, 

And  not  a  Christian  voice  be  left  for  prayer. 
To-night,  within  Valencia! — Round  our  walla 
The  paynini  host  is  gathering  for  th'  assault. 
And  we  have  none  to  guard  them. 

Gonzalez.  Then  my  place 

Is  here  no  longer. —  I  had  hoped  to  die 
Ev'n  by  the  altar  and  the  sepulchre 
Of  my  brave  sires — but  tbis  was  not  to  be  ! 
Give  me  my  sword  again,  and  lead  me  hence 
Back  to  the  ramparts.    I  have  yet  an  hour. 
And  it  hath  still  high  duties. — Now  my  wife 
Thou  mother  of  my  children — of  the  dead— 
Whom  I  name  unto  thee,  in  steadfast  hope — 
Farewell! 

Elmina.     No,  net  farewell! — My  soul  hath  risen 
To  mate  itself  with  thine  ;  and  by  thy  side, 
Amidst  the  hurtling  lances,  I  will  stand. 
As  one  on  whom  a  brave  man's  love  hatb  been 
Wasted  not  utterly. 

Gonzalez.  I  thank  tbee.  Heaven, 

That  I  have  tasted  of  the  awful  joy 
Which  thou  hast  given  to  temper  hours  like  tbis. 
With  a  deep  sense  of  thee,  and  of  thine  ends 
In  these  dread  visitings  ! 

(7%  ELMINA.)  We  will  not  part 

But  with  the  spirit's  parting! 

Elmina.  One  farewell 

To  her.  that,  mantled  with  fair  lovelinew. 
Doth  slumber  at  our  feet! — My  blessed  child  ' 
Oh  !  in  thy  heart's  affliction  thou  wert  strong, 


AMI!  holy  courage  did  pervade  thy  woe, 
As  light  the  troubled  waters  ! — Be  at  peace  ! 
Thou  whose  bright  spirit  made  itself  the  soul 
Of  all  that  were  around  thee  ! — And  thy  life 
K'en  then  was  struck,  and  withering  at  the  core 
—Farewell  !— Thy  parting  look  hath  on  me  fall'n 
K'eii  as  a  gleam  of  heaven,  ami  I  am  now 
.More  like  what  thou   hast   been!  — My  soul   ii 

hiish'd, 

For  a  still  tense  of  purer  worlds  has  sunk 
An  I  settled  on  its  depths  with  that  last  smile 
Which  from  thine  shone  forth.— Thou   ha*t   nut 

lived 
In  vain — my  child,  farewell! 

Gonzalez.  Surely  for  thee 

D  -ath  had  no  sting,  Ximi.-iia  ! — We  are  blest. 
To  learn  one  secret  of  the  shadowy  pass. 
From  such  an  aspect's  calmness.  Yet  once  mor« 
t  kiss  thy  pale  young  cheek,  my  broken  flower  . 
hi  token  of  th'  undying  love  and  hope. 
Whose  laxd  is  far  away. 


Scene.— The  -Kails  of  the  City. 
HERNANDKZ. — Jl  fete  Citizens  gathered  round  him 

Htmaiiilez.   Why,  men  have  cast  the  treasures, 

which  their  live? 

Mad  b-en  worn  down  in  gathering,  on  the  pyre. 
Av.  at  their  household  hearths  have  lil  the  brand 
Ev'n  from  that  shrine  of  quiet  love  to  bear 
The  flame  which  gave   their  temples  and   their 

homei", 

In  ashes,  to  the  winds!— They  have  done  this, 
Waking  a  blasted  void,  where  once  the  sun 
l,oi  k'd  upon  lovely  dwellings  ;  and  from  earth 
Razi'i"  »11  record  that  nn  such  a  spot 
Childhood  hath  sprung,  age  faded,  misery  wept. 
And  frail  Humanity  knelt  before  her  Grid; 
-They  have  done  this,  in  their  free  nobleness. 
Rather  than  see  the  spoiler's  tread  pollute 
Ti'eir  holy  places !— Praise,  high  praise  be  theirs. 
Who  have   left  man   such   lessons ! — And    these 

tilings. 

Made  your  own  hills  their  witnesses! — The  sky, 
Whose  arch  bends  o'er  you,  and  the  seas,  wherein 
Your  rivers  pour  their  gold,  rejoicing  SAW 
The  altar,  and  the  birth  place,  and  the  tomb, 
And  all  memorials  of  man's  heart  and  faitb, 
Th  is  proudly  h  maur'd. — Be  ye.  not  outdone 
ry  tlie  departed! — Though  the  godless  foe 
Be  close  upon  us,  we  have  power  to  snateb 
The  spoils  of  victory  from  him.     Be  but  ttiong  I 
A  few  bright  torches  an, I  brief  moments  yet 
Shall  baffle  his  flush'd  hope,  and  we  may  die. 
Laughing  him  unto  scorn. — Rise,  follow  me. 
And  thou,  Valencia!  triumph  in  thy  fate. 
Th.;  ruin,  not  the  yoke,  aiiu  make  thy  tuwers 
A  beacon  unto  Spain  ! 

Cifiien.  We'll  follow  thee! 

— Alas!  P>r  our  fair  city,  and  the  homes 
Wherein  we  rear'd  our  children  !— But  away! 
Tile  Moor  shall  plant  no  crescent  o'er  our  fanes! 

Voice  (from  a  toxer  on  the  valla.)    Succours !— 
Castile  I  Casiile! 

Citizens  (rushing  to  the  spot.)  It  is  even  so  ! 
.Vow  blessing  be  to  Heaven,  for  we  are  saved! 
Castile,  Caslile ! 

Voice  (from  th*  tower.)    Line  after  line  of  spear*, 
Lance  after  lance,  upon  the  horizon's  verge, 
Like  festal  lights  from  cities  bursting  up, 
Doth  skirl  the  plains!— in  faith,  a  noble  host! 

Another  Voice.     The  Mour  hath  turu'd  him  from 

our  walls,  to  front 
Th'  advancing  might  of  Spain! 

Citizens  (shouting.)  Castile!  Castile  1 

(GONZALEZ  enters,  supported  by  ELMINA  end  • 
Citizen.) 

Gonzalez.    What  shouts  of  joy  are  these  ? 
Hernandez.  ,  Hail,  chieftain  I  bail! 

Thus  ev'n  in  death  'tis  given  thee  to  receive 
The  conqueror's  crown ! — Behold   our  God   hath 

heard, 
And   arm'd  himself  with  vengeance! — Lo!   they 

come ! 
The  lances  of  Castile  ! 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORK?. 


121 


Gonzalez.  I  knew,  I  knew 

Thou  wouldst  not  utterly,  my  God,  forsake 
Thy  servant  in  his  need ! — My  blood  and  tears 
Have  .iot  sunk  vainly  to  tli*  attesting  earth  ! 
Praise  to  thee,  thanks  and  praise,  that  1  have  lived 
To  see  this  hourl 

FJmina.  And  I  too  bless  thy  name. 

Though  thou  hast  proved  me  unto  agony ! 
Oh  God  ! — thou  God  of  chastening  ! 

Voice,  .from  the  tower.)  They  move  on  1 

1  see  the  royal  banner  in  the  air. 
With  its  mnblazon'd  towers! 

Gonzalez.  Go,  bring  ye  forth 

Tnc  iiamii'r  of  i lie  < 'id.  and  plant  it  here, 
To  sir,  am  above  me  for  an  answering  sign 
That  tin;  pood  cross  doth  hold  its  lofty  place 
Within  Valencia  still !— What  see  ye  now  1 

Hernandez.    1  sea  a  kingdom's  might  upon  its 

path, 

Moving  in  teirible  magnificence, 
Unto  revenge  and  victory  ! — With  the  flash 
Of  knightly  swords,  up-springing  from  the  ranks, 
As  meteors  from  a  still  and  gloomy  deep. 
Ami  with  the  waving  of  ten  thousand  plumes, 
Like  a  land's  harvest  in  th  •  autumn  wind. 
And  with  fierce  light,  which  is  not  of  the  sun. 
But  flung  from  sheets  of  siecl — it  comes,  it  comes, 
The  vengeance  of  our  God  ! 

Gonzalez.  1  hear  it  now, 

The  heavy  tread  of  mail-clad  multitudes, 
Like  thunder-showers  upon  the  forest  paths. 

Hernandez.  Ay,  earth  knows  well  the  omen  of 

that  sound, 

And  she  hath  echoes,  like  a  sepulchre's, 
Pent  in  her  secret  hollows,  to  respond 
Unto  the  step  of  death  ! 

Gonzalez.  Hark  !  how  the  wind 

Swells  proudly  with  the  battle-march  of  Spain  1 
Now  the  heart  feds  its  power!— A  little  while 
Grant  me  to  live,  my  G<xl !— What  pause  is  this? 

Hernandez.    A  deep  and  dreadful  one  I— the  ser- 
ried files 

Level  their  spear?  for  combat ;  now  the  hosts 
Look  on  each  other  in  their  brooding  wrath, 
Silent,  and  face  to  face. 

VOICES   HEARD    WITHOUT,    rllvNTINO. 

Calm  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 

Fair  spirit !  rest  thee  now  I 
E'en  while  with  ours  thy  footsteps  trod, 

His  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 

Dust,  to  its  narrow  house  beneath  I 

Soul,  to  its  place  on  high  1 
They  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  death, 

No  more  may  fear  to  die. 

Elmina  (to  GONZALEZ).    It  is    the  death-hymn 

o'er  thy  daughter's  bier  1 
—But  I  am  calm,  and  e'en  like  gentle  winds. 
That  music,  through  the  stillness  of  my  heart, 
Sends  mournful  peace. 

Gonzalez.  Oh!  well  those  solemn  tones 

Accord  with  such  an  hour,  for  all  her  life 
Breathed  of  a  hero's  soul  1 

[jj  sound  of  trumpets  and  sliouting  from  the  plain.] 
Hernandez.  Now,  now  they  close ! — Hark  I  what 

a  dull  dead  sound 

Is  in  the  Moorish  war-shout  I — I  have  known 
Such  tones  prophetic  oft.— The  shock  is  given — 
Lo !  they  have  placed  their  shields  before  their 

hearts, 

And  lower'd  their  lances  with  the  streamers  on. 
And   on   their   steeds  bent  forward! — God  for 

Spain  I 

The  first  bright  sparks  of  battle  have  been  struck 
From  spear  to  spear,  across  the  gleaming  field ! 
— There  is  no  sight  on  which  the  blue  sky  looks 
To  match  with  this !— 'T  is  not  the  gallant  crests, 
Nor  banners  with  their  glorious  blazonry; 
The  very  nature  and  high  soul  of  man 
Doth  now  reveal  itself! 

Gonzalez.  Oh,  raise  me  up. 

That  I  may  look  upon  the  noble  scene ! 
—  It  will  not  be ! — That  this  dull  mist  would  pass 


A  moment   from   my  sight ! — Whence  rose   that 

shout, 
As  in  fierce  triumph? 

Hernandez  (clasping  his  hands.)    Must  I  look  on 

this  1 
The  banner  sinks — 'tis  taken  ! 

Gonzalez.  Whose  ? 

Hernandez.  Castile's  I 

Gonzalez.   Oh,  God  of  battles ! 

Elmina.  Calm  thy  I  oble  heart  I 

Thou  wilt  not  pass  away  without  thy  meed. 
Nay,  rest  thee  on  my  bosom. 

Hernandez.  Cheer  thi  e  yet ! 

Our  knights  havesptirr'd  to  rescue. — There  is  now 
A  whirl,  a  niinsling  of  all  terriule  things, 
Yet  more  appuliing  than  the  fierce  distinctness 
Wherewith  they  moved  before  ! — I  see  tall  plumei 
All  wildly  tossing  o'er  the  battle's  tide. 
Sway'd  hy  the  wrathful  motion,  and  the  press 
Of  desperate  men,  as  cedar-boughs  by  storms. 
Many  a  white  streamer  there  is  dyed  with  bloocf, 
Many  a  false  corselet  broken,  many  a  shield 
Pierced  through  ! — Now,  shout  for  Santiago,  shout! 
Lo  !  javelins  with  a  moment's  brightness  cleave 
The  thickening  dust,  and  barbed  steeds  go  down 
With  thr"ir  helm'd  riders  !— Who,  but  One,  can  tell 
How  spirits  part  amidst  (hat  fearful  rush 
And  trampling  on  of  furious  multitudes? 

Gonzalez.    Thou'rt  silent !— See'st  thou  more?— 
My  so  1 1  grows  dark. 

Hernandez.  And  dark  and  troubled,  as  an  angry 

sea, 

Dashing  some  gallant  armament  in  scorn 
Against  its  rocks,  is  all  on  which  I  ga/.e  ! 
— I  can  but  tell  thee  how  tall  spears  are  cross'd. 
And  lances  soem  to  shiver,  and  proud  helms 
To  lighten  with  the  stroke  !— But  round  the  spot, 
Where,    like   a   storm-fell'd   maul,  our    standard 

sank. 
The  h  art  of  battle  burns. 

Gonzalez.  Where  is  that  spot  ? 

Hernandez.    It    is   beneath   the   lonely   tuft    of 

palms. 

That  lift  their  green  heads  o'er  the  tumult  still, 
In  calm  and  stately  grace. 

Gonzalez.  There,  didst  thou  say  ? 

Then  God  is  with  us,  and  we  >nu*t  prevail  I 
For  on  that  spot  they  died  !— My  children's  blood 
Calls  on  th'  avenger  thence  I 

Elminn.  They  perish'd  there  1 

—And  the  bright  locks  that  waved  so  joyously 
To  the  free  winds,  lay  trampled  and  defiled 
Ev'n  on  that  place  of  death !— Oh,  M'sriiful  1 
Hush  the  dark  thought,  within  me' 

Hernandez  (with  sudden  exultation.)    Who  is  he, 
On  the  white  steed,  and  with  the  castled  helm, 
And  the.  gold  broider'd  mantle,  which  doth  float 
E'en  like  a  sunny  cloud  above  the  fight; 
And  the  pale  cross,  which  from  his  breast-plate 

gleams 
With  star-like  radiance? 

Gonzalez,  (eagerly.)        Didst  thou  say  the  cross  1 

Hernandez.    On  his  mail'd  bosom  shines  a  broad 

white  cross, 

And  his  long  plumage  through  the  darkening  air 
Streams  like  a  snow-wreath. 

Gnnzalez.  That  should  be — 

Hernandez.  The  king  I 

—Was  it  not  told  us  how  he  sent,  of  late, 
To  theCid's  tomb,  e'en  for  the  silver  cross. 
Which  he  who  slumbers  there  was  wont  to  bind 
O'er  his  brave  heart  in  fight?  (9) 

Gonzalez  (springing  up  joyfully.)    My  king  !  my 

king! 

Now  all  good  saints  for  Spain  I— My  noble  king! 
And  thou  art  there  I— That  I  might  look  once  more 
Upon  thy  face  !— But  yet  I  thank  thee.  Heaven  1 
That  thou  hast  sent  him,  from  my  dying  hands 
Thus  to  receive  his  city! 

f  He  sink*  back  into  ELMINA'S  arms. 

Hernandez.  He  hath  clear'd 

A  pathway  'midst  the  combat,  and  the  light 
Follows  his  charge  through  yon  close  living  mass, 
E'en  as  the  gleam  on  some  proud  vessel's  wake 
Along  the  stormy  waters  !— 'Tis  redeeui'd— 
The  castled  banner !— It  is  flung  once  more 


122 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WOKKS. 


In  Joy  and  glory,  to  the  sweeping  winds! 

— There  seems  a  wavering  through  the  paynim 

hosts — 
Castile  doth  press  them  sore — Now,  now  rejoice! 

Gonzalez.    What  hast  thou  seen  ? 

Hernandez.  Abdullah  falls!  He  falls! 

Tne  man  of  blood  ! — the  spoiler ! — he  hath  sunk 
In  our  king's  path! — Well  hath  that  royal  sword 
Avenged  thy  cause,  Gonzalez. 

They  give  way, 

Tne  '•  ascent's  van  is  broken  ! — On  the  hills 
And  the  dark  pine-woods  may  the  infidel 
Call  vainly  in  his  agony  of  fear, 
To  cover  him  from  vengeance  ! — Lo !  they  fly  I 
They  of  the  forest  and  the  wilderness 
Are  scatter'd  e'en  as  leaves  upon  the  wind! 
Woe  to  the  sons  of  Afric  ! — Let  the  plains, 
And  the  vine-mountains,  and  Hesperian  seas, 
Take  their  dead  unto  them ! — that  blood  shall  wash 
Our  soil  from  stains  of  bondage. 

Gonzalez  (attempting  to  raise  himsetf.)    Set  me 

free! 

Come  with  me  forth,  for  I  must  greet  my  king, 
After  his  battle-field  ! 

Hernandez.  Oh,  blest  in  death! 

Chosen  of  Heaven,  farewell! — Look  on  the  Cross, 
And  part  from  earth  in  peace! 

Gonzalez.  Now  charge  once  more ! 

God  is  with  Spain,  and  Santiago's  sword 
Is  reddening  all  the  air!— Shout  forth  'Castile!' 
The  day  is  ours! — I  go! — hut  fear  ye  not  I 
For  Afric's  lance  is  broken,  and  my  sons 
Have  won  their  first  good  field  !  [He  diet. 

Elmina.  Look  on  me  yet ! 

Speak  one  farewell,  my  husband ! — must  thy  voice 
Enter  my  soul  no  more  ? — Thine  eye  is  fix'd — 
Now  is  my  life  uprooted, — and  'tig  well. 

(j?  Sound  of  triumphant  music  is  heard,  and  mang 
Castilian  Knights  and  Soldiers  enter.) 

A  Citizen.     Hush  your   triumphal   sounds,    al- 
though ye  come 

E'en  as  deliverers! — But  the  noble  dead. 
And  those  that  mourn  them,  claim  from  human 

hearts 
Deep  silent  reverence. 

Elmina  (rising  proudly.)  No,  swell  forth,  Castile! 
Thy  trumpet-music,  till  the  seas  and  heavens, 
And  the  deep  hills,  give  every  stormy  note 
Echoes  to  ring  through  Spain  !— How,  know  ye  not 
That  all  array'd  for  triumph,  crown'd  and  robed 
With  the  strong  spirit  which  hath  saved  the  land, 
Ev'n  now  a  conqueror  to  his  rest  is  gone  ? 
— Fear  not  to  break  that  sleep,  but  let  the  wind 
Swell  on  with  victory's  shout !— He  will  not  hear — 
Hath  earth  a  sound  more  sad? 

Hernandez.  Lift  ye  the  dead, 

And  bear  him  with  the  banner  of  his  race 
Waving  above  him  proudly,  as  it  waved 
O'er  the  Cid's  battles,  to  the  tomb,  wherein 


His  warrior-sires  are  gather'd    [  They  raise  the  body 

Elmina.  Ay,  'tis  thus 

Thou  shouldst  be  honour'd  ! — And  I  follow  thee 
With  an  unfaltering  and  a  lofty  step, 
To  the  last  home  of  glory.    She  that  wears 
In  her  deep  heart  the  memory  of  thy  love 
Shall  thence  draw  strength  for  all  things,  till  th« 

God. 

Whose  hand  around  her  hath  unpeopled  earth, 
Looking  upon  her  still  and  chasten'd  soul. 
Call  it  once  more  to  thine  ! 

(To  the  Castilians.) 

Awake.  I  say 

Tambour  and  trumpet,  wake ! — and  let  the  land 
Through  all  her  mountains  hear  your  funeral  peal 
— So  should  a  hero  pass  to  his  repose. 

[Exeunt  omnes 

NOTES. 


NOTE    I. 

Mountain  Christians,  those  natives  of  Spain,  who,  under  their 
prince,  Pelayo,  took  refuge  among  the  mountains  of  the  northern 
provinces,  whe/r  they  maintained  (heir  religion  and  liberty,  while 
the  rot  of  their  country  was  overrun  by  the  Moon. 

NOTE  2. 

Oh  free  doth  torrow  pat$,  ire. 
Frey  geht  dai  Ungiuck  durch  die  gauze  Erde. 

Schiller1!  Death  of  WaUtratcin,  Act  if.  K. «. 

NOTE  3. 

Tiiona,  the  fire-brand.  The  name  of  the  Cid'»  favourite  (word, 
taken  in  battle  from  the  Moorish  king  Bucar. 

NOTE  4. 

Bow  he  won  Valencia  from  the  Moor,  ft. 
Valencia,  which  has  been  repeatedly  besieged,  and  taken  by  the 
armies  of  different  nations,  remained  in  the  pnneuion  of  the  Moors 
for  an  hundred  and  seventy  years  after  the  Cid's  death  It  was  re- 
gained from  them  by  King  Don  Jayme.  of  Angon,  surnamed  the 
Conqueror ;  after  whose  success  I  have  ventured  to  suppose  it  go- 
verned by  a  descendant  of  the  Campeador. 

NOTE  5. 

It  was  a  Spanish  tradition,  that  the  great  bell  of  the  Cathednl  of 
Saragoasa  always  tolled  spontaneously  before  a  king  of  Spain  died. 


"  El  qoe  en  buen  oora  nasco ;"  he  that  was  born  in  happy  hour 
An  appellation  given  to  the  Cid  in  the  ancient  chronicles. 

NOTE  7. 

For  this,  and  the  subsequent  allusions  to  Spanish  legends,  we  So- 
monca  and  Chronicle*  of  the  Cid. 

NOTE  8. 

"La  voila.  telle  qua  la  mort  nous  1'a  faite  '."—Botnut,  Oraitoni 
Funibm 

NOTE  9. 

This  circumstance  is  recorded  of  King  Don  Alphonso,  the  last  of 
that  name.  He  sent  to  the  Cid's  tomb  for  the  cross  which  that  war- 
rior was  accustomed  to  wear  upon  his  breast  when  he  went  to  bat- 
tle, and  had  it  made  into  one  for  himself;  "because  of  the  faith 
which  be  had,  that  through  it  he  should  obtain  the  victory." 
&wl*«y't  ChronicU  of  On  Cid. 


THE 


A  TRAGEDY,  IN  FIVE  ACT& 


VESPERS   OF  PALERMO 


DRAMATIS    PERSONA 


Couw  DI  PROCIDA. 
RAI»»P  »i  PROCIDA,  his  Son. 
ERI»W»  J,  Viceroy. 
DB  Cocci. 

MOKTALBA. 

••Mi 


ALBERTI. 

A  NSELMO.  a  Ifimk. 

VITTORIA. 

COKSTAKCK,  Sister  to  SrOxrt. 


S<M«»,  Soldiers,  Messengers,  Vassals,  Peasant*,  fct.,  Ac. 


8cB»*— Palermo. 


VESPERS   OF  PALERMO. 


ACT  THE  FIRST. 
SCENE  I. — A  Valley,  with  Vineyards  and  Cottages. 

Groups  of  Peasants — PROCIDA,  disguised  as  a  Pil- 
gum,  among  them. 

First  Peasant.    Ay,  this  was  wont  to  be  a  festa' 

time 

In  days  pone  by!     I  can  remember  well 
The  old  familiar  melodies  that  rose 
At  break  of  morn,  from  all  our  purple  hills, 
To  welcome  in  the  vintage.     Never  since 
Hath  music  seem'd  so  sweet.    But  the  light  hearts 
Which  to  those  measures  beat  so  joyously, 
Are  tamed  to  btillness  now.    There  is  no  voice 
Of  joy  through  all  the  land. 

Second  Peasant.  Yes  I  there  are  sounds 

Of  revelry  within  the  palaces, 
And  the  fair  castles  of  our  ancient  lords, 
Where  now  the  stranger  banquets.    Ye  may  hear, 
From  thence  the  peals  of  song  and  laughter  rise 
At  midnight's  deepest  hour. 

Third  Peasant.  Alas !  we  sat, 

In  happier  days,  so  peacefully  beneath 
The  olives  and  the  vines  our  fathers  rear'd, 
Encircled  by  our  children,  whose  quick  steps 
Flew  by  us  in  the  dance  !    The  time  hath  been 
When  peace  was  in  the  hamlet,  wheresoe'er 
The  storm  might  gather.    But  this  yoke  of  France 
Falls  on  the  peasant's  neck  as  heavily 
As  on  the  crested  chieftain's.    We  are  bow'd 
E'en  to  the  earth. 

Peasant's  Child.  My  father,  tell  me  when 
Shall  the  gay  dance  and  song  again  resound 
Amidst  our  chestnut-woods,  as  in  those  days 
Of  which  thou'rt  wont  to  tell  the  joyous  tale? 

First  Peasant.    When  there  are  light  and  reck 

less  hearts  once  more 
In  Sicily's  green  vales.     Alasl  my  boy, 
Men  meet  not  now  to  quaff  the  flowing  bowl, 
To  hear  the  mirthful  song,  and  cast  aside 
The  weight  ol  work -day  care:—  they  meet  to  speak 
Of  wrongs  and  sorrows,  and  to  whisper  thoughts 
They  dare  not  breathe  aloud 

Procida  (from  the  back  ground.)    Ay,  it  is  well 
So  to  relieve  th'  o'erburthen'd  heart,  which  pants 
Beneath  its  weight  of  wrong;  but  better  far 
In  silence  to  avenge  them! 

Jin  old  Peasant.  What  deep  voice 

Came  with  that  startling  tone? 

First  Peasant.  It  was  our  guest's, 

The  stranger  pilgrim,  who  hath  sojourn'd  here 
Since  yester-morn.    Good  neighbours,  mark  him 

well  : 

He  hath  a  stately  bearing,  and  an  eye 
Whose  glance  looks  through  the  heart.    His  mien 

accords 

III  with  such  vestments.    How  he  folds  round  him 
His  pilgrim-cloak,  e'en  as  it  were  a  robe 


Of  knightly  ermine.    That  commanding  step 
Should  have  been  used  in  courts  and  camps  to 

move. 
Mark  him  ! 

Old  Peasant.    Nay,  rather,  mark  him  not  ;  th<; 

times 

Are  fearful,  and  they  teach  the  boldest  hearts 
A  cautions  lesson.    'Wh;il  should  bring  him  here  ? 

A  Youth.     He  spoke  of  vengeance ! 

Old  Peasant.  Peace!  we  me  beset 

By  snares  on  every  side,  and  we  must  learn 
In  silence  and  in  patience  to  endure 
Talk  not  of  vengeance,  for  the  word  is  death. 

Procida  (coming  foncard  indignantly.)  The  word 

is  death!    And  what  hath  life  for  thee. 
That  thou  shouldst  clina  to  it  thus?  thou  abject 

thing  ' 

Whose  very  soul  is  moulded  to  the  yoke. 
And  stamp'd  with  servitude.    What !  is  it  life 
Thus  at  a  breeze  to  start,  to  school  thy  voice 
Into  low  fearful  whispers,  and  to  cast 
Pale  jealous  looks  around  thee,  lest,  e'en  then, 
Strangers  should  catch  its  echo  ?— Is  there  aught 
In  this  so  precious,  that  thy  furrow'd  cheek 
Is  blanch'd  with  terror  at  the  passing  thought 
Of  hazarding  some  few  and  evil  days, 
Which  drag  thus  poorly  on  ? 

Some  of  the  Peasants.  Away,  away  1 

Leave  us,  for  there  is  danger  in  thy  presence. 

Procida.  Why,  what  is  danger  ?— Are  there  deep- 
er ills 

Than  those  ye  bear  thus  calmly?  Ye  have  drain'd 
The  cup  of  bitterness,  till  naught  remains 
To  fear  or  shrink  from— therefore,  be  ye  strong  ! 
Power  dwelleth  with  despair.— Why  start  ye  thus 
At  words  which  are  but  echoes  of  the  thoughts 
Luck'd  in  your  secret  souls?— Full  well  I  know, 
There  is  not  one  among  you,  but  hath  nursed 
Some  proud  indignant  feeling,  which  doth  make 
One  conflict  of  his  life.    I  know  thy  wrongs. 
And  thine— and  thine,— but  if  within  your  breast* 
There  is  no  chord  that  vibrates  to  my  voice, 
Then  fare  ye  well. 

A  Ynulk  (coming  forward.)    No,  no !  sajr  on,  say 

on  I 

There  are  still  free  and  fiery  hearts  e'en  here. 
That  kindle  at  thy  words. 

Peasant.                           If  that  indeed 
Thou  hast  a  hope  to  give  us 

Procida.  There  is  hope 

For  all  who  suffer  with  indignant  thoughts 
Which  work  in  silent  strength.    What  1  think  jr« 

Heaven 

Overlooks  th'  oppressor,  if  he  bear  awhile 
His  crested  head  on  high  ?— I  tell  you,  no  I 
Th'  avenger  will  not  sleep.    It  was  an  hour 
Of  triumph  to  the  conqueror,  when  our  king. 
Our  young  brave  Conradin,  in  life's  fair  morn, 
On  the  red  scaffold  died.    Yet  not  the  less 
Is  Justice  throned  above  ;  and  her  good  tint* 
(123) 


J26 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Comes  rushing  on  in  Btorms:  that  royal  blood 
Hath  lifted  an  accusing  voice  from  earth. 
And  hath  been  heard.    The  traces  of  the  past 
Fade  in  man's  heart,  but  ne'er  doth  Heaven  forget. 

Peasant.    Had  we  but  arms  and  leaders,  we  are 

men 
Who  might  earn   vengeance  yet;  but  wanting 

these. 
What  wouldst  thou  have  us  do  ? 

Procida.  Be  vigilant 

And  when  the  signal  wakea  the  land,  arise ! 
The  peasant's  arm  is  strong,  and  there  shall  be 
A  rich  and  noble  harvest.  Pare  ye  well. 

[Exit  PROCIDA. 

First  Peasant.    This  man  should  be  a  prophet : 

how  he  seem'd 

To  read  our  hearts  with  his  dark  searching  glance 
And  aspect  of  command  1  And  yet  his  garb 
Is  mean  as  ours. 

Second  Peasant.  Speak  low  ;  I  know  him  well. 
At  first  his  voice  disturb'd  me,  like  a  dream 
Of  other  days :  but  I  remember  now 
His  form,  seen  oft  when  in  my  youth  I  served 
Beneath  the  banners  of  our  kings!    'Tis  he 
Who  hath  been  exiled  and  proscribed  so  long. 
The  Count  di  Procida. 

Peasant.  And  is  this  he  ? 

Then  Heaven  protect  him  !  for  around  his  steps 
Will  many  snares  be  set. 

First  Peasant.  He  comes  not  thus 

But  with  some  mighty  purpose  ;  doubt  it  not; 
Perchance  to  bring  us  freedom.     He  is  one. 
Whose  faith,  through  many  a  trial,  hath  been 

proved 

True  to  our  native  princes.   But  away  ! 
The  noontide  heat  is  past,  and  from  the  seas 
Light  gales  are  wandering  through  the  vineyards ; 

now 
We  may  resume  our  toil.  f  Exeunt  Peatantt. 

SCENE  II.— The  Terrace  of  a  Castle. 
ERIBERT,  VITTORIA. 

Fittoria.    Have  I  not  told  thee,  that  I  bear  a 

heart 

Blizhted  and  cold  ? — Th'  affections  of  my  youth 
Lie  slumbering  in  the  grave;  their  fount  is  closed, 
Arid  all  the  soft  and  playfjl  tenderness 
Which  hath  its  home  in  woman's  breast,  ere  yet 
Deep  wrongs  have  oear'd  it ;  all  is  fled  from  mine. 
Urge  me  no  more. 

Krihert.  O  lady !  doth  the  flower 

That  sleeps  entomb'd  through  the  long  wintry 

storms 

Unfold  its  beauty  to  the  breath  of  spring ; 
4nd  shall  not  woman's  heart,  from  chill  despair, 
Wake  at  love's  voice  ? 

Vittoria.        Love! — make  foce'»name  thy  spell, 
And  I  am  strong  ! — the  very  word  calls  up 
From  the  dark  past,  thoughts,  feelings,  powers, 

array'd 

In  arms  against  thee  t — Know'stthou  whom  I  loved. 
While  my  soul's  dwelling-place  was  still  on  earth? 
One  who  was  born  for  empire,  and  endow'd 
With  such  high  gifts  of  princely  majesty, 
As  bow'd  all  hearts  before  him!— Was  he  not 
Brave,  royal,  beautiful  ? — And  such  he  died  ; 
He  died!— hast  thou  forgotten  ?— And  thou 'rt  here, 
Thou  meet'st  my  glance,  with  eyes  which  coldly 

look'd, 

—Coldly  !— nay,  rather  with  triumphant  gaze, 
TTpon  his  murder !— Desolate  as  I  am, 
Yr-t  in  the  mien  of  thine  affianced  bride. 
Oh.  my  lost  Conradin  I  there  should  be  still 
Somewhat  of  loftiness,  which  might  o'erawe 
The  hearts  of  thine  assassins. 

Eribcrt.  Haughty  dame  I 

If  thy  proud  heart  to  tenderness  be  closed, 
Know,  danger  is  around  thee  •  thou  hast  foes 
That  seek  thy  ruin,  and  my  power  alone 
Can  shield  thee  from  their  arts. 


Ptttoria.  Provencal,  tell 

Thy  tale  of  danger  to  some  happy  heart. 
Which  hath  its  little  world  of  loved  ones  round. 
For  whom  to  tremble;  and  its  tranquil  joys 
That  make  earth,  Paradise.     I  stand  alone  ; 
—They  that  are  blest,  may  fear. 

Eribert.  Is  there  not  one 

Who  ne'er  commands  in  vain  ?— proud  lady,  bend 
Thy  spirit  to  thy  fate  ;  for  know  that  he, 
Whose  car  of  triumph  in  its  earthquake  path 
O'er  the  bow'd  neck  of  prostrate  Sicily, 
Hath  borne  him  to  dominion ;  he,  my  king, 
Charles  of  Anjou,  decrees  thy  hand  the  boon 
My  deeds  have  well  deserved ;  and  who  hath  power 
Against  bis  mandates? 

Vittoria.  Viceroy,  tell  thy  lord, 

That  e'en  where  chains  lie  heaviest  on  the  land. 
Souls  may  not  all  be  fetter'd.    Oft,  ere  now. 
Conquerors  have  rock'd  the  earth,  yet  fail'd  to 

tame 

Unto  their  purposes,  that  restless  fire, 
Inhabiting  man's  breast. — A  spark  bursts  forth, 
And  so  they  perish! — 'tis  the  fate  of  those 
Who  sport  H  ith  lightning — and  it  may  be  his. 
—Tell  him  I  fear  him  not,  and  thus  am  free. 

Eribert.  'Tis  well.    Then  nerve  that  lofty  heart 

to  bear 

The  wrath  which  is  not  powerless.    Yet  again 
Bethink  thee,  lady  I— Love   may  change—  hath 

changed 

To  vigilant  hatred  oft,  whose  sleepless  eye 
Still  finds  whal  most  it  seeks  for.    Fare  thee  well. 
—Look  to  it  yet!— To-morrow  I  return. 

[Exit  ERIBERT. 

yittoria.  To-morrow  '—Some  ere  now  have  slept 

and  dreamt 

Of  morrows  which  ne'er  dawn'd — or  ne'er  for  them. 
So  silently  their  deep  and  still  repose 
Hath  melted  into  death  !— Are  there  not  balms 
In  nature's  boundless  realm,  to  pour  out  sleep 
Like  this,  on  me? — Yet  should  my  spirit  still 
Endure  its  earthly  bonds,  till  it  could  bear 
To  his  a  glorious  tale  of  his  own  isle. 
Free   and    avenged. —  'I'/tou  shouldsl    be  now   at 

work. 

In  wrath,  my  native  Etna  !  who  dost  lift 
Thy  spiry  pillar  of  dark  smoke  so  high, 
Through  the  red  heaven  of  sunset ! — sleep'st  thou 

still, 

With  all  thy  founts  of  fire,  while  spoilers  tread 
The  glowing  vales  beneath  ? 

[PROCIDA  enters,  disguised. 
Ha  !  who  art  thou, 

Unbidden  guest,  that  with  so  mute  a  step 
DJSI  steal  upon  me  ? 

Procida.  One,  o'er  whom  hath  pass'd 

All  that  can  change  man's  aspect ! — Yet  not  long 
Shalt  thou  find  safety  in  forgetfulness. 
— I  am  he,  to  breathe  whose  name  is  perilous, 
Unless  thy  wealth  could  bribe  the  winds  to  silence, 
— Know'st  thou  this,  lady  ?  [He  shows  a  ring. 

fittoria.  Righteous  Heaven  !  the  pledge 

Amidst  his  people  from  the  scaffold  thrown 
By  him  who  perish'd.  and  whose  kingly  blood 
E'en  yet  is  unatoned. — My  heart  beats  high — 
— Oh,  welcome,  welcome  !  thou  art  Procida, 
Th'  Avenger,  the  Deliverer! 

Procida.  Call  me  so. 

When  my  great  task  is  done.    Yet  who  can  tell 
If  the  return'd  be  welcome  ? — Many  a  heart 
Is  changed  since  last  we  met. 

yittoria.  Why  dost  thou  gaze 

With  such  a  still  and  solemn  earnestness, 
Upon  my  alter'd  mien  ? 

Procida.  That  I  may  read 

If  to  the  widow'd  love  of  Conradin, 
Or  the  proud  Eribert's  triumphant  bride, 
I  now  intrust  my  fate. 

yittoria.  Thou,  Procida  I 

That  thou  shou'dst  wrong  me  thus  !— Prolong  thj 

gaze 
Till  it  hath  found  an  answer. 

Procida.  'Tis  enough. 

I  find  it  in  thy  cheek,  whose  rapid  change 
Is  from  death's  hue  to  fever's:  in  the  wild 
Unsettled  brightness  of  thy  proud  dark  eye. 


HEMANS    POETICAL  WORKS. 


12Y 


And  in  thy  wasted  form.     Ay,  't  is  a  deep 
And  solemn  joy,  thus  in  thy  looks  to  trace, 
Instead  of  youth's  gay  bloom,  the  charade's 
Of  noble  suffering  ; — on  thy  brow  the  same 
Commanding  spirit  hoKls  its  native  state 
Which  could  not  stoop  to  vileness.     Vet  tfM  voice 
Of  Fame  hulh  tuld  afar,  that  thou  shoulds    wed 
This  tyrant  Eribert. 

yittoria.  And  told  it  not 

A  tale  of  insolent  love  repel  I'd  with  scorn. 
Of  stern  commands  and  fearful  menaces 
Met  with  indignant  courage  ? — Procida  ! 
It  was  but  now  that  haughtily  I  braved 
His  sovereign's  mandate,  which  decrees  my  hand, 
With  its  fair  appanage  of  wide  domains 
An.i  wealthy  vassals,  a  most  fitting  boon. 
To  recompense  his  crimes. — I  smiled — ay,  smiled — 
In  proud  security  !  for  the  high  of  heart 
Have  still  a  pathway  to  escape  disgrace, 
Though  it  be  dark  and  lone. 

Procida.  Thou  shall  not  need 

To  tread  its  shadowy  ma7.es.    Trust  my  words : 
I  tell  thee,  that  a  spirit  is  abroad. 
Which  will  not  slumber  till  its  path  be  traced 
By  deeds  of  fearful  fame.    Vittoria,  live  ! 
It  is  most  meet  that  thou  shouldat  live,  to  see 
The  mighty  expiation  ;  for  thy  heart 
(Forgive  me  that  1  wrong'd  its  faith)  hath  nursed 
A  high,  majestic  grief,  whose  seal  is  set 
Deep  nn  thy  marble  brow. 

yittoria.  Then  thou  canst  tell, 

By  gazing  on  the  wither'd  rose,  that  there 
Time,  or  the  Might,  hath  work'd !— Ay,  this  is  in 
Thy  vision's  scope  :  but  oh!  the  things  unseen, 
Untold,  undreamt  of,  which  like  shadows  pass 
Hourly  o'er  that  mysterious  world,  a  mind 
To  ruin  struck  by  grief!— Yet  doth  my  soul. 
Far  'midst  its  darkness,  nurse  one  soaring  hope, 
Wherein  is  bright  vitality.— 'Tis  to  see 
His  blood  avenged,  and  his  Cair  heritage, 
My  beautiful  native  land,  in  glory  risen, 
Like  a  warrior  from  his  slumbers  I 

Procida.  HearV.  thou  not 

With  what  a  deep  and  ominous  moan,  the  voice 
Of  our  great   mountain  swells ?— There  will  be 

soon 

A  fearful  burst ! — Vittoria  !  brood  no  more 
In  silence  o'ur  thy  sorrows,  but  go  forth 
Amidst  thy  vassals  (yet  lie  secret  still) 
And  let  thy  brealh  give  nurture  to  the  spurk 
Thou'lt  (ind  already  kindled.     I  move  on 
In  shadow,  yet  awakening  in  my  path 
That  which  shall  startle  nations.    Fare  thee  well. 

yittoria.    When  shall  we  meet  again  ? — Are  we 

not  those 
Whom  most  h?  loved  on  earth,  and  think'st  thou 

not 

That  love  e'en  yet  shall  bring  his  spirit  near 
While  thus  we  hold  communion  ? 

Procida.  Yes,  I  feel 

Its  breathing  influence  whilst  I  look  on  thee, 
Who  wert  its  light  in  life.     Yet  will  we  not 
Make  womanish  tears  our  offering  on  his  tomb; 
He  shall  have  nobler  tribute !— I  must  hence. 
But  thou  shall  soon  hear  more.    Await  the  time. 
[Exeunt  separately. 

SCENE  III.—  The.  Sea-Shore. 
RAIMOND  Dt  PROCIDA,  CONSTANCE. 

Constance.    T*iere  is  a  shadow  far  within  your 

eye 
Which  hath  of  late  been  deepening.    Y  m  were 

wont 

Upon  the  clearness  of  your  open  brow 
To  wear  a  hrishter  sjiirit,  shtdding  round 
Joy  like  our  southern  sun.     li  is  not  wel.. 
If  some  dark  thought  he  gathering  o'er  your  soul, 
To  hi'le  i>  from  affection      Why  is  this, 
My  Raimnn-l,  why  is  this? 

Rnimo'td  Oh  !  from  the  dreams 

Of  vouth  weet  Constant*,  hath  not  manhood  still 
A  wild  ;IMI|  stormy  wakening  ?— They  depart, 
Li^'ht  aftr-f  li"ht.  o'ir  j'loriou?  visions  fade. 
Til-.;  vaguely  liou'itil'il  !  (ill  e;irth,  nnveil'd. 


Lies  pale  around  ;  and  lif.i's  realities 

Press  on  the  soul,  from  its  iinfathom'd  depth 

Rousing  the  fiery  feelings,  and  proud  thoughts. 

In  all  their  fearful  strength  ! — 'Tis  ever  thus, 

And  doubly  so  with  me  ;  for  I  awoke 

With  high  aspirings,  making  it  a  curse 

To  breathe  where  noble  minds  are  bow'd,  as  here. 

— To  breathe  !— It  is  «<it  breath  ! 

Constance.  1  know  thy  grief, 

— And  is 't  not  mine  ? — for  those  devoted  men 
Doom'd  with  their  life  to  expiate  some  wild  word. 
Born  of  the  social  hour.    Oh  !  I  have  knelt, 
E'en  at  my  brother's  feet,  with  fruitless  tears, 
Imploring  him  to  spare.     His  heart  is  shut 
Against  my  voice  ;  yet  will  I  not  forsake 
The  cause  of  mercy. 

Rttimond.  Waste  not  thou  thy  prayers, 

Oh,  gentle  love,  for  them.    There's  little  need 
For  Pity,  though  the  galling  chain  be  worn 
By  some  few  slaves  the  less.    Let  them  depart ! 
There  is  a  world  beyond  the  oppressor's  reach, 
And  thither  lies  their  way. 

Constance.  Alas  !  I  see 

That  some  new  wrong  hath  pierced  you  to  the  soul. 
Raimond.     Pardon,   beloved  Constance,   if  my 

words, 

Prom   feelings  hourly  stung,   have  caught,  per- 
chance, 

A  tone  of  bitterness. — Oh!  when  thine  eyes, 
With  their  sweet  eloquent   thoughtfulness,    are 

fix'd 

Thus  tenderly  on  mine,  I  should  forget 
All  else  in  their  soft  beams ;  and  yet  I  came 

To  tell  thee 

Constance.        What  ?   What  wouldst  thou  say  1 

O  speak ! — 
Thou  wouldst  not  leave  me! 

Raimond.  I  have  cast  a  cloud. 

The  shadow  of  dark  thoughts  and  ruin'd  fortunes, 
O'er  thy  bright  spirit.     Haply,  were  I  pone, 
Thou  wouldst  resume  thyself,  and  dwell  once  mora 
In  the  cltiar  sunny  light  of  youth  and  joy, 
E'en  as  before  we  met — before  we  loved  ! 
Constance.    This   is  but   mockery.— Well    thou 

know'st  thy  love 

Hath  given  me  nobler  being;  made  my  heart 
A  home  for  all  the  deep  sublimities 
Of  strong  affection  ;  and  I  would  not  change 
Th'  exalted  life  I  draw  from  that  pure  source. 
With  all  its  rhequWd  hues  of  hope  and  fear, 
Ev'n  for  the  brightest  calm.    Thou  most  unkind* 
Have  I  deserved  this  ? 

Raimond.  Oh  !  thou  hast  deserved 

A  love  less  fatal  to  thy  jieace  than  mine. 
Think  not 't  is  mockery  :— But  1  cannot  rest 
To  he  the  scorn'd  and  trampled  thing  I  am 
In  this  degraded  laud.     Its  very  skies, 
That  smile  as  if  but  festivals  were  held 
Beneath  their  cloudless  azure,  weigh  me  down 
With  a  dull  sense  of  bondage,  and  I  pine 
For  freedom's  charter'd  air.     1  would  go  forth 
To  seek  rny  noble  father ;  he  hath  been 
Too  long  a  lonely  exile,  and  his  name 
Seems  fading  in  the  dim  obscurity 
Which  gathers  round  my  fortunes. 

Constance.  Mast  we  p.rt* 

And  is  it  come  to  this  ?  Oh  !  I  have  still 
Deern'd  it  enough  of  joy  with  thee  to  share 
E'en  grief  itself— and  now — but  this  is  vain  ; 
Alas !  too  deep,  too  fond,  is  woman's  love. 
Too  full  of  hope,  she  casts  on  troubled  wavei 
The  treasures  of  her  soul ! 

Raimond.  Oh,  speak  not  thus! 

Thy  gentle  and  desponding  tones  fall  cold 
Upon  my  inmost  heart. — I  leave  thee  but 
To  be  more  worthy  of  a  love  like  thine. 
For  I  have  dreamt  of  fame !— A  few  short  years 
And  we  may  yet  be  blest. 

Constance.  A  few  short  years  ! 

Less  time  may  well  suffice  for  death  and  fate 
To  work  all  change  on  earth! — To  break  the  tie* 
Which  early  love  had  form'J;  and  to  bow  down 
Th'  elastic  spirit,  and  to  blight  each  flower 
Strewn  in  life's  crowded  path!— But  be  it  so! 
Be  it  enough  to  know  that  happiness 
Meets  thee  on  other  shores. 


128 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Raimond.  Where'er  I  roam, 

Thou  shall  be  with  my  soul  I— Thy  soft  low  voice 
Shall  rise  upon  remembrance,  like  a  strain 
Of  music  heard  in  boyhood,  bringing  back 
Life's  morning  freshness. — Oh  I  that  there  should  be 
Things,  which  we  love  with  such  deep  tenderness, 
But,  through  that  love,  to  learn  how  much  of  woe 
Dwells  in  one  hour  like  this! — Yet  weepthou  not! 
We  shall  meet  soon  ;  and  many  days,  dear  love, 
Ere  I  depart. 

Constance.        Then  there's  a  respite  still. 
Days! — not  a  day  but  in  its  course  may  bring 
Some  strange  vicissitude  to  turn  aside 
Th'  impending  blow  we  shrink  from. — Fare  thee 
well.  (returning) 

— Oh,  Raimond!  this  is  not  our  last  farewell! 
Thou  wouldst  not  so  deceive  me? 

Raimond.  Doubt  me  not, 

Gentlest  and  best  beloved  !  we  meet  again. 

[Exit  CONSTANCE. 
Raimond  (after  a  pause.)    When  shall  I  breathe 

in  freedom,  and  give  scope 
To  those  untameable  and  burning  thoughts, 
And  restless  aspirations,  which  consume 
My  heart  i'  th'  land  nf  bondage  ? — Oh  1  with  you, 
Ye  everlasting  images  of  powrr. 
And  of  infinity  !  thou  blue-rolling  deep. 
And  you,  ye  stars!  whose  beams  are  characters 
Wherewith  the  oracles  of  fate  are  traced  ; 
tVith  you  my  soul  finds  room,  and  casts  aside 
The    weight    that   doth    oppress    her.— But   my 

thoughts 

Are  wandering  far;  there  should  be  one  to  share 
('his  awful  and  majestic  solitude 
Of  sea  and  heaven  with  me. 

[ PROCIDA  enters  unobserved. 

It  is  the  hour 

tie  named,  and  yet  he  comes  not. 
Proeidn  (coming  forward.)  He  is  here. 

Raimond.  Now,  thou  mysterious  stranger,  thou, 

whose  glance 

Doth  fix  tself  on  memory,  and  pursue 
Thought,  like  a  spirit,  haunting  its  lone  hours; 
rteveal  thyself;  what  art  thou? 

Profida.  One,  whose  life 

Hath  been  a  troubled  stream,  and  made  its  way 
Through    rocks  and  darkness,  and   a  thousand 

storms, 

With  still  a  mighty  aim.    But  now  the  shades 
Of  eve  are  gathering  round  me,  and  I  come 
To  this,  my  native  land,  that  I  may  rest 
Beneath  its  vines  in  peace. 

Raimond.  Seek'st  thou  for  peace  ? 

This  is  no  land  of  peace :  unless  that  deep 
And  voiceless  terror,  which  doth  freeze    men's 

thoughts 

{Jack  to  their  source,  and  mantle  its  pale  mien 
vVith  a  dull  hollow  semblance  of  repose, 
May  so  he  called. 

Procida.  There  are  such  calms  full  oft 

('receding  earthquakes.    But  I  have  not  been 
So  vainly  school'd  by  fortune,  and  inured 
I'n  shape  my  course  on  peril's  dizzy  brink, 
That  it  should  irk  my  spirit  to  put  on 
Such  guise  of  htish'd  suhmissiveness  as  best 
May  suit  the  troubled  aspect  of  the  times. 
Raimond.    Why,  then,  thou  art  welcome,  stran- 
ger, to  the  land 

vVhere  most  disguise  is  needful.— He  were  bold 
Who  now  should  wear  his  thoughts  upon  his  brow 
tfeneath  Sicilian  skies.    The  brother's  eye 
Doth  search  distrustfully  the  brother's  face  ; 
And  friends,  whose  undivided  lives  have  drawn 
Prom  the  same  past  their  long  remembrances, 
Now  meet  in  terror,  or  no  more  ;  lest  hearts 
full  to  o'erflowing.  in  their  social  hour. 
Should  pour  out  some  rash  word,  which  roving 

winds 

Might  whisper  to  our  conquerors.— This  it  is, 
To  wear  a  foreign  yoke. 

Pror.ida.  It  matters  not 

Co  him  who  holds  the  mastery  o'er  his  spirit, 
And  can  suppress  its  workings,  till  endurance 
Becomes  as  nature.    We  can  tame  ourselves 
To  a».  extremes,  and  there  is  that  in  life 


To  which  we  cling  with  most  tenacious  grasp, 
Ev'n  when  its  li.fty  claims  are  nil  reduced 
To  the  pour  common  privilege  of  breathing.— 
Why  dost  thou  turn  away  ? 

Raimond.  What  wouldst  thoii  with  rneT 

I  deem'd  thoe,  by  th'  ascendant  soul  which  Lived, 
And  made  its  throne  on  thy  commanding  brow, 
One  of  a  sovereign  nature,  which  would  scorn 
So  to  abase  its  hich  capacities 
For  aught  on  earth.     Km  thou  art  like  the  rest. 
What  wouldst  thou  with  me  ? 

Procida.  \  would  counsel  thee. 

Thou  must  do  that  which  men — ay,  valiant  men,— 
Hourly  submit  to  do  ;  in  the  proud  court, 
And  in  the  stately  camp  and  at  the  board 
Of  midnight  revellers,  whose  flush'd  mirth  is  all 
A  strife,  won  hardly. — Where  is  he  whose  heart 
Lies  bare,  through  all  its  foldings,  to  the  raze 
Of  mortal  eye? — If  vengeance  wait  the  foe, 
Or  fate  th'  oppressor,  't  is  in  depths  conceal'd 
Beneafh  a  smiling  surface. — Youth  !  I  say, 
Keep  thy  soul  down  ! — Put  on  a  mask  ! — 'tis  worn 
Alike  by  power  and  weakness,  and  the  smooth 
And  specious  intercourse  of  life  requires 
Its  aid  in  every  scene. 

Raimond.  Away,  dissembler ! 

Life  hath  its  high  and  its  ignoble  tasks, 
Fitted  to  every  nature.     Will  the  free 
And  royal  eagle  stoop  to  learn  the  arts 
By  which  the  serpent  wins  his  spell-bound  prey? 
It  is  because  I  mill  not  clothe  myself 
In  a  vile  garb  of  coward  semblances, 
That  now,  e'en  now,  I  struggle  with  my  heart, 
To  bid  what  most  I  love  a  long  farewell. 
And  sefk  rny  country  on  some  distant  shore, 
Where  such  things  are  unknown! 

Procida  (exulting  ly.)  Why,  this  is  joy: 

After  a  long  conflict  with  the  doubts  and  fears, 
And  the  poor  subtleties  of  meaner  mimlS, 
To  meet  a  spirit,  whose  bold  elastic  wing 
Oppression  hath  not  crush'd.— Hig!i-hearted  youth 
Thy  father,  should  his  footsteps  ere  again 
Visit  these  shores 

Raimond.  My  father!  what  of  hici? 

Speak  !  was  he  known  to  thee? 

Procida.  In  distant  lands 

With  him  I've  traversed  many  a  wild,  ai.d  loox'd 
On  many  a  danger ;  and  the  thought  that  tb  >u 
Wert  smiling  then  in  peace,  a  happy  boy. 
Oft  through  the  storm  hath  cheer'd  him. 

Raimond.  Dost  thou  deem 

That  still  he  lives?— Oh!  if  it  be  in  chains, 
In  woe,  in  poverty's  obscurest  cell, 
Say  but  he  lives— and  I  will  track  his  steps 
E'CJI  to  earth's  verge! 

Procida.  It  may  be  that  he  lives, 

Though  long  his  name  hath  ceased  to  be  a  word 
Familiar  in  man's  dwellings.     But  its  sound 
May  yet  be  heard!— Raimond  di  Procida, 
Rememberest  thou  thy  father? 

Raimond.  From  my  mind 

His  form  hath  faded  long,  for  years  have  pass'd 
Since  he  went  forth  to  pxile:  but  a  vague, 
Yet  powerful  image  of  deep  majesty, 
Still  dimly  gathering  round  each  thought  of  him. 
Doth  claim  instinctive  reverence;  and  my  love 
For  his  inspiring  name  hatli  long  become 
Part  of  my  being. 

Procida  Raimond  !  doth  no  voice 

Speak  to  thy  soul,  and  tell  thee  whose  the  arms 
That  would  enfold  thee  now?— My  son  !  my  son' 

Raimond.    Father !— Oh  God !— my  father  I  Now 

I  know 
Why  my  heart  woke  before  thee  1 

Procida.  Oh!  this  hour 

i  Makes  hope  reality;  for  thou  art  all 
I  My  dreams  had  pictured  thee ! 

Raimond.  Yet  why  so  long , 

;  E'en  as  a  stranger  hast  thou  cross'd  my  paths, 
'  One  nameless  and  unknown  ?— and  yet  I  felt 
Each  pulse  within  me  thrilling  to  thy  voice. 

Procida.  Because  I  would  not  link  thy  fate  with 

mine, 

Till  I  could  hail  the  day  spring  of  that  hope 
Which  now  is  gathering  round  us.— Listen,  youth 
T/tou  hast  told  me  of  a  subdued  and  scorn 'd, 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


129 


And  trampled  land,  wnose  very  soul  is  bow'd 
And  fnshion'd  to  he'  ••huius  -—but  /  tell  the* 
Of  a  most  generous  and  devoted  land, 
A  land  of  kindling  energies;  a  land 
Of  glorious  recollections  ! — proudly  true 
To  the  high  memory  of  her  nncicnt  kings, 
And  rising,  in  majestic  scorn,  to  cast 
Her  alien  bondage  off! 

Raimond.  And  where  is  this? 

Prncida.     Here,  in  our  isle,  our  own  fair  Sicily! 
Her  spirit  is  awake,  and  moving  on, 
In  its  deep  silence  mightier,  to  regain 
Her  place  amongst  the  nations  ;  and  the  hour 
Of  that  tremendous  effort  is  at  hand. 

Raimond.   Can  it  be  thus  indeed  ?— Thou  pour'st 

new  life 

Through  all  my  burning  veins!— I  am  as  one 
Awakening  from  a  chill  and  death-like  sleep 
To  the  full  glorious  day. 

Procida.  Thou  shall  hear  more ! 

Thou  frhnlt  hear  things  which  would— which  mill 

arouse 

The  proud,  free  spirits  of  our  ancestors 
E'en  from  their  marble  rest.     Yet  mark  me  well ! 
Be  secret ! — for  along  my  destined  path 
!  yet  must  darkly  move. — Now,  follow  me; 
And  join  a  band  of  men,  in  whose  high  hearts 
There  lies  a  nation's  strength. 

Raimond.  My  noble  father  ! 

Thy  words  have  given  me  all  for  which  I  pined — 
An  aim.  a  hope,  a  purpose! — And  the  blood 
Dnth  rush  in  warmer  currents  through  my  veins, 
As  a  bright  fountain  from  its  icy  bonds 
By  the  quick  sun-stroke  freed. 

' Procida.  Ay,  this  is  well  I 

Buch  natures'  burst  men>  chains!— Now,  follow 
me.  [Kicunt 

ACT  THE  SECOND. 

SCENE  I. — Apartment  in  a  Palace. 

ERIBERT,  CONSTANCE. 

Constance.    Will  you  not  hear  me? — Oh!  that 

they  who  need 

Hourly  forgiveness,  they  who  do  but  live, 
While  mercy's  voice,  beyond  th'  eternal  stars, 
Wins  the  great  Judge  to  listen,  should  be  thus, 
In  their  vain  exercise  of  pageant  power. 
Hard  and  relentless!— Gentle  brother,  yet 
'Tis  in  your  choice  to  imitate  that  heaven 
Whose  noblest  joy  is  pardon. 

Eribert.  'Tis  too  late. 

You  have  a  soft  and  moving  voice,  which  pleads 
With  eloquent  melody— but  they  must  die. 

Constance.  What ! — die ! — for  words  ? — for  breath, 

which  leaves  no  trace 
To  sully  the  pure  air,  wherewith  it  blends, 
And  is,  being  utter'd,  gone  ?— Why,  't  were  enough 
For  such  a  venial  fault  to  be  deprived 
One  little  day  of  man's  free  heritage, 
Heaven's  warm  and  sunny  light!  —  Oh!  if  you 

deem 

That  evil  harbours  in  their  souls,  at  least 
Onlay  the  stroke,  till  guilt,  made  manifest, 
Shall  hid  stern  Justice  wake. 

Eribert.  I  am  not  one 

Of  those  weak  spirits,  that  timorously  keep  watch 
For  fair  occasions,  thence  to  borrow  hues 
Of  virtue  for  their  deeds.    My  school  hath  been 
Where  power  sits  crown'd  and  arm'd. — And,  ma  'k 

me,  sister ! 

To  a  distrustful  nature  it  might  seem 
Strange,  that  your  lips  thus  earnestly  should  plead 
for  these  Sicilian  rebels.    O'er  my  being 
Suspicion  holds  no  power.— And  yet,  take  note 
—  I  have  snid,  and  they  must  die. 

Constance.  Have  you  no  fear  7 

Eribert.    Of  what  ?— that  heaven  should  fall  ? 

Constance.     NT!— But  that  earth 
Should  arm  in  madness. — Brother!  I  have  seen 


Dark  eyes  bent  on  you,  e'en  midst  festal  throngi, 
With  such  deep  hatred  settled  in  their  glance, 
My  heart  hath  died  within  rue. 

Kribcrt.  Am  I  then 

To  pause,  and  doubt,  and  shrink,  because  a  girl, 
A  dreaming  girl,  hath  trembled  at  a  look? 

Constance.  Oh!  looks  are  no  illusions,  when  the 

soul, 

Which  may  not  speak  in  words,  can  find  no  way 
liut  theirs,  to  liberty ! — Have  not  these  men 
Brave  sons,  or  noble  brothers? 

Eribert..  Yes!  whose  name 

It  rests  with  me  to  make  a  word  of  fear, 
A  sound  forbidden  'midst  the  haunts  of  men. 

Constance.     But   not   forgotten!  —  All!  beware, 

beware ! 

— Nay,  look  not  sternly  on  me. — There  is  one 
Of  that  devoted  band,  who  yet  will  need 
Years  to  be  ripe  for  death.— He  is  a  youth, 
A  very  boy,  on  whose  unshaded  cheek 
The  spring-time  glow  is  lingering.  'T  was  but  now 
His  mother  left  me,  with  a  timid  hope 
Just  dawning  in  her  breast;  and  I — I  dared 
To  foster  its  faint  spark.  -You  smile !—  Oh !  then 
He  will  be  saved ! 

Eribert.  Nay,  I  but  smiled  to  think 

What  a  fond  fool  is  Hope! — She  may  be  taught 
To  deem  that  the  great  sun  will  change  his  course 
To  work  her  pleasure ;  or  the  tomb  give  hack 
Its  inmates  to  her  arms.    In  sooth,  'tis  strange  ! 
Yet,  with  your  pitying  heart,  you  should  not  thus 
Have  mock'd  the  boy's  sad  mother— I  have  said. 
You  should  not  thus  have  mock'd  her! — Now,  fare- 
well! [Exit  ERIBERT. 

Constance.    Oh,   brother!    hard   of  heart!  — for 

deeds  like  these 

There  must  be  fearful  chastening,  if  on  high 
Justice  doth  hold  her  state. — And  I  must  tell 
Yon  desolate  mother  that  her  fair  young  son 
Is  thus  to  perish ! — Haply  the  dread  tale 
May  slay  her  too; — for  heaven  is  merciful. 
— 'Twill  be  a  bitter  task!  \Exit  CONSTANCE. 

SCENE  II. — Jl  ruined  Tower,  surrounded  by  Wood* 
PROCIDA,  VITTORIA. 

Procida.    Thy  vassals  are  prepared  then  ? 

Ptttoria.  Yes,  they  wait 

Thy  summons  to  their  task. 

Procida.  Keep  the  flame  brieht. 

Rut  hidden,  till  this  hour.— Wouldst  thou  dare, 

lady, 

To  join  our  councils  at  the  night's  mid  watch, 
In  the  lone  cavern  by  the  rock-hewn  cross  ? 

Vittoria.    What  should  I  shrink  from  ? 

Procida.  Oh  !  the  forest  paths 

Are  dim  and  wild,  e'en  when  the  sunshine  streams 
Through  their  high  arches :  but  when   powerful 

night 

Comes,  with  her  cloudy  phantoms,  and  her  pale 
Uncertain  moonbeams,  and  the  hollow  sounds 
Of  her  mysterious  winds ;  their  aspect  then 
Is  of  another  and  more  fearful  world  ; 
A  realm  of  indistinct  and  shadowy  forms. 
Waking  strange  thoughts,  almost  too  much  for 

this. 
Our  frail  terrestrial  nature. 

Vittoria.  Well  I  know 

All  this,  and  more.    Such  scenes  have  been  th 

abodes 

Where  through  the  silence  of  my  soul  have  pass'd 
Voices,  and  visions  from  the  sphere  ot  those 
That  have  to  die  no  morel— Nay,  doubt  it  notl 
If  such  unearthly  intercourse  hath  e'er 
Been  granted  to  our  nature,  'tis  to  hearts 
Whose  love  is  with  the  dead.    They,  they  alone, 
Unmadden'd  could  sustain  the  fearful  joy 
And  glory  of  its  trances!— at  the  hour 
Which  makes  guilt  tremnlous,  and  peoples  earth 
And  air  with  infinite,  viewless  multitudei, 
I  will  be  with  thee,  Procida. 

frocida.  Thy  presence 

Will  kindle  nobler  thoughts,  and,  in  the  souls 
Of  suffering  and  indignant  men,  arouse 


130 


REMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


That  which  may  strengthen  our  majestic  cause 
With  yet  a  deeper  power.— Kuow'st  thou  the  spot  ? 

fiUoria.    Full  well.    There  is  no  scene  so  wild 

and  lone 

In  these  dim  woods,  but  I  have  visited 
I  s  tangled  shades. 

Procida.  At  midnight,  then,  we  meet. 

[Exit  PROCIDA. 

nttoria.    Why  should  I   fear?— Thou  wilt  be 

with  me,  thou 

Th'  immortal  dream  and  shadow  of  my  soul, 
Spirit  of  him  I  love!  that  meet'st  me  still 
In  loneliness  and  silence;  in  the  noon 
Of  the  wild  night,  and  in  the  forest  depths. 
Known  but  to  me  ;  for  whom  thou  giv'st  the  winds 
And  sighing  leaves  a  cadence  of  thy  voice. 
Till  my  heart  faints  with  that  o'erthrilling  joy  ! 
— Thou  wilt  be  with  me  there,  and  lend  my  lips 
Words,   fiery   words,   to  flush  dark   cheeks  with 

shame. 
That  thou  art  unavenged  !  [Exit  VITTORIA. 


SCENE  III. — Jl  Chapel,  with  a  Monument,  on  which 
in  laid  a  Sword. — Moonlight. 

PROCIDA,  RAIMOND,  MONTALBA. 
Montalba.    And  know  you  not  my  story? 
Procida.  In  the  lands 

Where  I  have  been  a  wanderer,  your  deep  wrongs 
Were  number'd  with  our  country's;  but  their  tale 
Came  only  in  faint  echoes  to  mine  ear. 
I  would  fain  hear  it  now. 

Montalba.  Hark  !  while  you  spoke, 

There  was  a  voice  like  murmur  in  the  breeze. 
Which  ev'n  like  death  came  o'er  me; — 'twas  a 

nieht 

Like  this,  of  clouds  contending  with  the  moon, 
A  night  of  sweeping  winds,  of  rustling  leaves. 
And  swift  wild  shadows  floatin?  o'er  the  earth. 
Clothed  with  a  phantom  life  ;  when,  after  years 
Of  battle  and  captivity.  I  spurr'd 
My  good  steed  homewards.  —  Oh!   what  lovely 

dreams 

Rose  on  my  spirit  1— There  were  tears  and  smiles, 
But  all  of  joy  ! — And  there  were  bounding  steps, 
And  clinging  arms,  whose  passionate  clasp  of  love 
Dnth  twine  so  fondly  round  the  warrior's  neck. 
When  his  plumed  lielm  is  doffd.— Hence,  feeble 

tl)iiu<fhts! 
—I  am  sterner  now,  yet  once  such  dreams  were 

mine  ! 

Rainond.    And  were  they  realized  ? 
Montalba.  Youth!  Ask  me  not, 

But  listen  ! — I  drew  near  my  own  fair  home  ; 
There  was  no  light  along  its  walls,  no  sound 
Of  bugle,  pealing  from  the  watch-tower's  height 
At  my  approach,  although  my  trampling  steed 
Made   the   earth  ring ;  yet  the  wide  gates  were 

thrown 

All  open. — Then  my  heart  misgave  me  first, 
And  on  the  threshold  of  my  silent  hall 
I  paused  a  moment,  and  the  wind  swept  by 
With  the  same  deep  and  dirge-like  tone,  which 

pierced 

My  soul  e'en  now. — I  call'd — my  struggling  voice 
fiave  utterance  to  my  wife's,  my  children's  names; 
They  answer'd  not — I  roused  my  failing  strength, 
And  wildly -rush'd  within. — And  they  were  there. 
Raimond.    And  was  all  well  ? 
Montalba.  Ay,  well !— for  death  is  well. 

And  they  were  all  at  rest ! — I  see  them  yet, 
Pale  in  their  innocent  beauty,  which  had  fail'd 
To  stay  th'  assassin's  arm  ! 

Raimond.  Oh,  righteous  Heaven  t 

Who  had  done  this? 
Montalba.  Who! 

Procida.  Canst  thou  question,  who"! 

Whom  hath  the  earth  to  perpetrate  such  deeds. 
In  the  coM-blooded  revelry  of  crime. 
Hut  those  whose  yoke  is  on  us  ? 

Rnimniid.  Man  of  woe! 

Whit  words  hath  pity  foi  itespair  like  thine? 
Mo'itn'ba.   I'ity! — fond  youth  !— My  soul  disdains 
•I,.,  grief 


Which  doth  mil)  snin  its  ucrp  M  cii  <-ics, 
'I'o  ask  a  vain  companionship  <,f  t.  ars, 
And  so  to  bu  relieved! 

Procida.  For  woes  like  these. 

There  is  no  sympathy  but  vengeance. 

Montalba.  None ! 

Therefore  I  brought  you  hither,  that  your  hearts 
Might  catch  the  spirit  of  the  scene !— Look  round  i 
We  are  in  the  awful  presence  of  the  dead ; 
Within  yon  tomb  they  sleep,  whose  gentle  blood 
Weighs  down  the  murderer's  soul.—  They  sleep!— 

but  I 

Am  wakeful  o'er  their  dust ! — I  laid  my  sword. 
Without  its  sheath,  on  their  sepulchral  stone, 
As  on  an  altar ;  and  the  eternal  stars. 
And  heaven,  and  night,  bore  witness  to  my  vow, 
No  more  to  wield  it,  save  in  one  great  cause, 
The  vengeance  of  the  grave! — And  now  the  hour 
Of  that  atonement  comes! 

|"  He  takes  the  sword  from  the  tomb. 

Raimond.    My  spirit  burns! 
Ami  iin  full  heart  almost  to  bursting  swells. 
—Oh  !  f,,r  the  day  of  battle  ! 

Proriita.  Raimond,  they 

Whose  souls  are  dark  with  guiltless  blood  must 

die; 
--Hut  not  in  battle. 

Raimond.  How,  my  father  ? 

Procida.  No ! 

Look  on  that  sep-ilchre,  and  it  will  teach 
Another  lesson. — But  th'  appointed  hour 
Advances. — Thou  wilt  join  our  chosen  band. 
Noble  Montalba? 

Montalba.  Leave  me  for  a  time, 

That  I  may  calm  my  soul  by  intercourse 
With  the  still  dead,  before  I  mix  with  men, 
And  with  their  passions.   I  have  nursed  for  yean 
In  silence  and  in  solitude,  the  flame 
Which  doth  consume  me;  and  it  is  not  used 
Thus  to  be  look'd  or  breathed  on. — Procida ! 
1  would  be  tranquil— or  appear  so— ere 
I  join  your  brave  confederates.  Through  my  hear 
There  struck  a  pang — but  it  will  soon  have  pass'd 

Procida.  Remember! — in  thecavein  by  thecrost 
Now,  follow  me,  my  son. 

[Exeunt  PROCIDA  and  RUMONT> 

Montalba   (after  a  pause,  leaning  on   the   tomb.) 

Said  he, 

"  My  son?" — Now,  why  should  this  man's  life 
Go  down  in  hope,  thus  resting  on  a  son, 
And  I  be  desolate  ?— How  strange  a  sound 
Was  that—"  my  son  /"—I  had  a  boy,  who  might 
Have  worn  as  free  a  soul  upon  his  brow 
As  doth  this  youth.— Why  should  the  thought  of 

him 

Thus  haunt  me  ?— when  I  tread  the  peopled  ways 
Of  life  again,  I  shall  be  pass'd  each  hour 
By  fathers  with  their  children,  and  I  must 
Learn  calmly  to  look  on.— Metliinks  't  were  now 
A  gloomy  consolation  to  behold 
All  men  bereft,  as  I  am!— But  awny, 
Vain   thoughts!— One    task    is  left   for   blighted 

hearts. 
And  it  shall  be  fulfill'd.  [Exit  MONTALBA. 


SCENE  IV. — Entrance  of  a  Cave,  surrounded  by 
Rocks  and  Forests.  A  rude  Cross  seen  among 
the  Rocks. 

PROCIDA,  RAIMOND. 

Procida.  And  is  it  th'is,  beneath  the  solemn  skies 
Of  midnieht,  and  in  solitary' caves. 
Where  the  wild  forest  creatures  make  their  .air,— 
Is't  thus  the  chiefs  of  Sicily  must  hold 
The  councils  of  their  country  ? 

Raimond.  Why,  such  scenes 

In  their  primeval  majesty,  beheld 
Thus  by  faint  starlight,  and  the  partial  glaie 
Of  the  red-streaming  lava,  will  inspire 
Far  deeper  thoughts  than  pillar'd  halls,  wherein 
Statesmen  hold  weary  visits.— Are  we  not 
O'ershadow'd  by  that  Etna,  which  of  old 
With  its  dread  prophecies,  hath  struck  dismay 
Throuch  tyrants'  hearts,  and   bade  them  seek  • 
home 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


131 


In  other  climes  ?— Hark  !  from  its  depths  e'en  now  j 
What  hollow  moans  are  sent! 

Enter  MONTALBA,  GUIDO,  and  other  SICILIANB. 

Procida.    Welcome,  my  brave  associates ! — We 

can  share 
The  wolf's  wild   freedom  here !— Th'   oppressor's 

haunt 

Is  not  'midst  rocks  and  caves.    Are  we  all  met  ? 
Sicilians.    All,  all ! 

Procida.    The  torch-light,  sway'd  by  every  gust, 
But  dimly  shows  your  features.— Where  is  he 
Who  from  his  battles  had  return'd  to  breathe 
Once  more  without  a  corselet,  and  to  meet 
The  voices,  and  the  footsteps,  and  the  smiles. 
Blent  with  his  dreams  of  home  ? — Of  that  dark  tale 
The  rest  is  known  to  vengeance  ! — Art  thou  here, 
With  thy  deep  wrongs,  and  resolute  despair, 
Chililless  Montalba  1 

Montalba  (advancing.)  He  is  at  thy  side. 
Call  on  that  desolate  father,  in  the  hour 
When  his  revenge  is  nigh. 

Procida.  Thou,  too,  come  forth, 

Prom  thine  own  halls  an  exile!— Dost  thou  make 
The  mountain-fastnesses  thy  dwelling  still, 
While  hostile  banners,  o'er  thy  rampart  walls, 
Wave  their  proud  blazonry? 

First  Sicilian.  Even  BO.    I  stood, 

Last  night,  before  my  own  ancestral  towers 
An  unknown  outcast,  while  the  tempest  beat 
On  my  bare  head— what  reck'd  it 7 — There  was  joy 
Within,  and  revelry  ;  the  festive  lamps 
Were  streaming  from  each  turret,  and  gay  songs. 
I'  th'  stranger's  tongue,  made  mirth.    They  little 

deem'd 

Who  heard  their  melodies!— but  there  are  thoughts 
Best  nurtured  in  the  wild;  there  are  dread  vows 
Known  to  the  mountain  echoes.— Procida  ! 
Call  on  the  outcast,  when  revenge  is  nigh. 
Procida     I  knew  a  young  Sicilian,  one  whose 

heart 

Should  be  all  fire.    On  that  most  guilty  day, 
When,  with  our  mnrtyr'd  Conradin,  the  flower 
Of  the  land's  knighthood  perish'd ;  he,  of  whom 
I  speak,  a  weeping  boy,  whose  innocent  tears 
Mulled  a  thousand  hearts  tha«  dared  not  aid. 
Stood  liy  the  scaffold  with  extended  arms, 
Calling  ii pnn  his  father,  whose  last  look 
Tiirn'd  full  on  him  its  parting  agony. 
The  father's  blood  gusli'd  o'er  him  !— and  the  boy 
Then  dried  his  tears,  and  with  a  kindling  eye, 
And  a  proud  flush  on  his  young  cheek,  look'd  up 
To  the  bright  heaven.— Doth  he  remember  still 
That  bitter  hour  ? 

Second  Sicilian.    He  bears  a  sheathless  sword  ! 
— Call  on  the  orphan  when  revenge  is  nigh. 

Procida.    Our  bana  shows  gallantly — but  there 

are  men 

Who  should  be  with  us  now,  had  they  not  dared 
In  some  wild  moment  of  festivity 
To  give  their  full  hearts  way,  and  breathe  a  wish 
For  freedom  '.—and  some  traitor— it  might  be 
A  breeze  perchance — bore  the  forbidden  sound 
To  Eribert :— so  they  must  die— unless 
Fate  (who  at  times  is  wayward)  should  select 
Some  other  victim  first!— But  have  they  not 
Brothers  or  sons  among  us  ? 

Ou.ida.  Look  on  me ! 

I  have  a  brother,  a  young  high-soul'd  boy. 
And  beautiful  as  a  sculptor's  dream,  with  brow 
That  wears,  amidst  its  dark  rich  curls,  the  stamp 
Of  inborn  nobleness.    In  truth,  lie  is 
A  glorious  creature1!— But  his  doom  is  seal'd 
With  their's   of  whom   you   spoke;   and   I   have 

knelt— 

— Ay,  scorn  me  notl  't  was  for  his  life — I  knelt 
E'en  at  the  viceroy's  feet,  and  he  p  it  on 
That  heartless  laugh  of  cold  malignity 
We  know  so  well,  and  spnrn'd  me. —  But  the  stain 
Of  shame  like  this,  takes  blood  to  wash  it  oft; 
And  thus  it  .-hall  be  caricell'd  !— Call  on  me. 
When  the  stern  moment  of  revenge  is  nigh. 
Procida.  I  call  upon  thee  now !   The  land's  high 

soul 

Is  roused,  and  moving  onward,  like  a  breeze 
Or  a  swift  sunbeam,  kindling  nature's  hues 


To  deeper  life  before  it.     In  his  chains, 
The  peasant  dreams  of  freedom  !— Ay,  'tis  thus 
Oppression  fans  th'  imperishable  flame 
JVilh  most  unconscious  hands.— No  praise  be  her's 
''or  what  she  blindly  works! — When  slavery'scup 
J'erflows  its  bounds,  the  creeping  poison,  meant 
To  dull  our  senses,  through  each  burning  vein 

rs  fever,  lending  a  delirious  strength 
To  burst  man's  fetters — and  they  shall  be  burst " 
[  have  hoped,  when  hope  seem'd  frenzy  ;   but  s 

power 

Abides  in  human  will,  when  bent  with  strong 
.iiiswerving  eneigy  on  one  great  aim, 
To  make  and  rule  its  fortunes! — I  have  been 
A  wanderer  in  the  fullness  of  my  years, 
A  restless  pilgrim  of  the  earth  and  seas, 
Sathering  the  generous  thoughts  of  other  lands, 
'I'n  aid  our  holy  cause.     And  aid  is  near  : 
But  we  must  cive  the  signal.     Now,  before 
The  majesty  of  yon  pure  Heaven,  whose  eye 
Is  on  our  hearts,  whose  righteous  arm  befriends 
The  arm  that  strikes  for  freedom  ;  speak  !  decree 
The  fate  of  our  oppressors. 

Muntalba.  Let  them  fall 

When  dreaming  least  of  peril !— When  the  heart, 
Masking  in  sunny  pleasure,  doth  forget 
That  hate  may  smile,  but  sleeps  not.— Hide  th 

sword 

With  a  thick  veil  of  myrtle,  and  in  halls 
Of  banqueting,  where  the  full  wine-cup  shines 
Red  in  the  festal  torch-light ;  meet  we  there, 
And  hid  them  welcome  to  the  feast  of  death. 
Procida.    Thy  voice  is  low  and  broken,  and  tb^ 

words 
Scarce  meet  our  ears. 

Montalba.  Why,  then,  I  thus  repea\ 

Their  import.     Let  th'  avenging  sword  burst  fortl 
In  some  free  festal  hour — and  woe  to  him 
Who  first  shall  spare ! 

Rahnond.  Must  innocence  and  guih 

Perish  alike?  • 

Montalba.        Who  talks  of  inno  "nee? 
When  hath  their  hand  been  stay'    for  innocence! 
l«et  them  all  perish  !— Heaven  will  choose  it?  own 
Why  should  their  children  live  ?— The  earthquak* 

whelms 

Itsundistinguish'd  thousands,  making  graves 
Of  peopled  cities  in  its  path — and  this 
Is  Heaven's  dread  justice— ay,  and  it  is  well! 
Why  then  should  we  be  tender,  when  the  skies 
Deal  thus  with  man  ?— What,  if  the  infant  bleed  1 
Is  these  not  power  to  hush  the  mother's  pangs? 
What,  if  the  youthful  bride  perchance  should  fall 
In  her  triumphant  beauty  ?— Should  we  pause  ? 
As  if  death  were  not  mercy  to  the  pangs 
Which  make  our  lives  the  records  of  our  woes? 
Let  them  all  perish  !— And  if  one  be  found 
Ami  1st  our  band  to  stay  th'  avenging  steel 
For  pity,  or  remorse,  or  boyish  love, 
Then  be  his  doom  as  theirs !  \A  pause. 

Why  gaze  ye  thus  1 
Brethren,  what  means  your  silence  ! 

Sicilians.  Be  it  so  I 

If  one  among  us  stay  th'  avenging  steel 
For  love  or  pity,  be  his  doom  as  theirs  ? 
Pledge  we  our  faith  to  this! 
Raimond  (rushing  forward    indignantly.)    Out 

faith  to  Ms! 

Vo  !  I  but  drcamtj  heard  it :— Can  it  be? 
My  countrymen    my  father!— Is  it  thus 
That  freedom  should  be  won?— Awake!  Awake 
To  loftier  thoughts !— Lift  up,  exultingly. 
On  thecrown'd  heights  and  to  the  sweeping  wind*, 
Your  glorious  banner!— Let  your  trumpet's  blast 
Make  the  tombs  thrill  with  echoes !    Call  aloud. 
Proclaim  from  all  your  hills,  the  land  shall  bear 
The  stranger's  yoke  no  longer!— What,  is  he 
Who  carries  on  his  practised  lip  a  smile, 
Beneath  his  vest  a  dagger,  which  but  waits 
Till  the  heart  bounds  with  joy,  to  still  its  heatinjr§1 
That  which  our  nature's  instinct  doth  recoil  from, 
And  our  blood  curdle  at— Ay,  yours  and  mine— 
A  murderer!— Heard  ye?— Shall  that  name  wit» 

ours 
Go  down  to  after  days  ?— Oh,  friends !  a  cause 


132 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Like  that  for  which  we  rise,  hath  made  bright 

names 

Of  the  el'Jer  time  as  rallying  words  to  men, 
Sounds  full  of  mignt  anil  immortality  ! 
And  shall  not  ours  be  each  ? 

J\Iont(i/!in.  Fond  dreamer,  peace! 

Fame!  What  is  fame? — Will  our  unconscious  dust 
Start  into  thrilling  rapture  from  the  grave. 
At  the  vain  breath  of  praise  ? — I  tell  ye,  youth, 
Our  souls  are  parch'd  with  agonizing  thirst. 
Which  must  be  quench'd  though  death  were  in  the 

draught : 

We  must  have  vengeance,  for  our  foes  have  left 
No  other jiy  unblighted. 

Procida.  Oh !  my  son, 

The  time  is  past  for  such  high  dreams  as  thine, 
Thou  know'st  not  whom  we  deal  with.    Knightly 

faith 

And  chivalrous  honour,  are  but  things  whereon 
Th»'y  cast  disdainful  pity.    We  must  meet 
Falsehood  with  wiles,  and  insult  with  revenge. 
And   for  our  names— whate'er  the  deeds,  by  which 
We  I  iirst  our  bondage— is  it  not  enough 
That  in  the  chronicle  of  days  to  come. 
We,  through  a  bright  '  For  Ever,'  shall  be  call'd 
The  men  who  saved  their  country? 

Mainland.  Many  a  land 

Hath  bow'd  beneath  the  yoke:  and  then  arisen, 
As  a  strong  lion  rending  silken  bonds. 
And  on  the  open  field,  before  high  Heaven, 
Won  such  majestic  vengeance,  as  hath  made 
Its  name  a  power  on  earth. — Ay,  nations  own 
It  is  enough  of  glory  to  be  call'd 
The  children  of  the  mighty,  who  redeem'd 
Their  native  soil — but  not  by  means  like  these. 

Mmtalba.    I  have  no  children. — Of  Montalba's 

blood 

Not  one  red  drop  doth  circle  through  the  veins 
Of  aueht  that  breathes?— Why,  what  have  /  to  do 
With  far  futurity  ?— My  spirit  lives 
But  in  the  past. — Away!  when  thou  dost  stand 
On  this  fair  earth,  as  doth  a  blasted  tree 
Which  the  warm  sun  revives  not.  then  return, 
Strong  in  thy  desolation  ;  tut  till  liteu, 
Thau  art  not  for  our  purpose  ;  we  have  need 
Of  more  unshrinking  hearts. 

Ran/wild.  Montalba  !  know, 

I  shrink  from  crime  alone.    Oh !  if  my  voice 
Might  yet  have  power  among  you,  I  would  say, 
Associates,  leaders,  be  avenged  !  but  yet 
As  knights,  as  warriors! 

Montalba.  Peace  !  have  we  not  borne 

Tli'  indelible  taint  of  contumely  and  chains? 
We  are  not  knights  and  warriors. — Our  bright  crests 
Have  been  defiled  and  trampled  to  the  earth. 
Boy!  we  are  slaves — and  our  reyenge  shall  be 
Deep  as  a  slave's  disgrace. 

Rainond.  Why,  then,  farewell : 

I  leave  you  to  your  counsels.     He  that  still 
Would  hold  his  lofty  nature  undebased, 
And  his  name  pure,  were  but  a  loiterer  here. 

Procida.    And  is    it  thus    indeed  /—(lost    thnu 

forsake 
Our  cause,  my  son! 

Raimond.  Oh,  father !  what  proud  hopes 

This  hour  hath  blighted  ! — yet,  whate'er  betide, 
It  is  a  noble  privilege  to  look  up 
Fearless  in  heaven's  bright  face — and  this  is  mine, 
And  shall  be  still.  [Exit  RAIMOND. 

Procida.  He's  gone !— Why,  let  it  be  1 

I  trust  our  Sicily  hath  many  a  son 
Valiant  as  mine.    Associates !  't  is  decreed 
O  ir  foes  shall  perish.    We  have  but  to  name 
The  hour,  the  scene,  the  signal. 

Mfi'ulba.  It  should  be 

In  the  full  city,  when  some  festival 
lintli    atlier'd  throngs,  and  lull'd  infatuate  hearts 
Tn  brief  security.    Hark!  is  there  not 
A  sound  of  hurrying  footsteps  on  the  breeze? 
We  are  betray'd. — Who  art  thou  7 

VITTORIA  enters. 

Procida.  One  alone 

Should  he  thus  daring.    Lady,  lift  the  I'eil 
That  shades  thy  noble  brow 


(She  raises  her  veil,  the  Sicilians  draw  back  with 
respect.) 

Sicilians.  Th'  affianced  bride 

Of  our  lost  king! 

Procida.  And  more,  Montalba  ;  know 

Within  this  form  there  dwells  a  soul  as  high 
As  warriors  in  their  battles  e'er  have  proved, 
Or  patriots  on  the  scatfold. 

yittoria.  Valiant  men ! 

I  come  to  ask  your  aid.    You  see  me,  one 
Whose  widow'd  youth  hath  all  been  consecrate 
To  a  proui!  sorrow,  and  whose  life  is  held 
In  token  and  memorial  of  the  dead. 
Say,  is  it  meet  that  lingering  thus  on  earth, 
But  to  behold  one  great  atonement  made, 
And  keep  one  name  from  fading  in  men's  hearts, 
A  tyrant's  will  should  force  me  to  profane 
Heaven's  altar  with  unnallow'd  vows — and  live 
Stung  by  the  keen  unutterable  scorn 
Of  my  own  bosom,  live— another's  bride? 

Sicilians.     Never,  oh,  never! — fear   not,   noble 

lady! 
Worthy  of  Conradin ! 

yittoria.  Vet  hear  me  still. 

His  bride,  that  Eribert's,  who  notes  our  tears 
With  his  insulting  eye  of  cold  derision, 
And,  could   he   pierce  the  depths'  where   feeling 

works. 

Would  number  e'en  our  agonies  as  crimes. 
— Say,  is  this  meet  ? 

Guirio.  We  deem'd  these  nuptials,  lady. 

Thy  willing  choice  ;  but  'tis  a  joy  to  find 
Thou  att  noble  still.  Fear  not ;  by  all  our  wrongs, 
This  shall  not  be. 

Procida.  Vittoria,  thou  art  come 

To  ask  our  aid,  but  we  have  need  of  thine. 
Know,  the  completion  of  our  high  designs 
Requires — a  festival :  and  it  must  be 
Thy  bridal ! 

Vittoria.    Procida ! 

Procida.  Nay,  start  not  thus, 

'Tis  no  hard  task  to  bind  your  raven  hair 
With  festal  garlands,  and  to  bid  the  song 
Rise,  and  the  wine-cup  mantle.    No— nor  yet 
To  meet  your  suitor  at  the  glitt'ring  shrine, 
Where  death,  not  love,  awaits  him  ! 

yiitoria.  Can  my  soul 

Dissemble  thus? 

Procida.  We  have  no  other  means 

Of  winning  our  great  birthright  back  from  those 
Who  have  usurp'd  it.  than  so  lulling  them 
Into  vain  confidence,  that  they  may  deem 
All  wrongs  forgot ;  and  this  may  be  best  done 
By  what  I  ask  of  thee. 

'Montalba.  Then  we  will  mix 

With  the  flush'd  revellers,  making  their  gay  feasl 
The  harvest  of  Hie  grave. 

yittoria.  A  bridal  day  ! 

—Must  it  be  so?— Then,  chiefs  of  Sicily, 
I  bid  you  to  my  nuptials!  but  be  there 
With  "your  bright  swords  unsheathed,  for  thus  alone 
My  guests  should  be  adorn'd. 

Procida.  Ami  let  thy  banquet 

B«  soon  announced,  for  there  are  noble  men 
Sentenced  to  die,  for  whom  we  fain  would  purchase 
Reprieve  with  other  Mood. 

yittoria.  Be  it  then  the  day 

Preceding  that  appointed  for  their  doom. 

Guido.  My  brother,  Ibou  shall  live !— Oppression 

boasts 

No  gift  of  prophecy !— It  but  remains 
To  name  our  signal,  chiefs  ! 

Montalba.  The  Vesper-bel). 

Procida.   Even  so,  the  Vesper-bell,  whose  deep- 
toned  peal 

Is  heard  o'er  land  and  wave.     Part  of  our  band. 
Wearing  the  guise  of  antic  revelry. 
Shall  enter,  as  in  some  fantastic  pageant. 
The  halls  of  Eribert ;  and  at  the  hour 
Dovoted  to  the  sword's  tremendous  »asn, 
[  follow  with  the  rest.— The  Vesper-bell ' 
riiat  sound  shall  wake  th'  avenger ;  for  'I  is  eome 
Fhe  time  when  power  is  in  a  voice,  a  breath, 
To  burst  the  spell  which  bound  us.     But  the  night 
[s  waning,  with  her  stars,  which,  one  by  one. 


HEMANS    POETICAL  WORKS. 


133 


Warn  us  to  part.     Friends,  to  your  homes  !— your. 

homes! 

That  name  is  yet  to  win.— Away,.prepare 
For  our  next  meeting  in  Palermo's  walls. 
The  Vesper-bell !  Remember ! 

Sicilians.  Fear  us  not. 

The  Vesper-bell !  [Exeunt  omnes. 


ACT  THE  THIRD. 

SCENE  I.— Apartment  in  a  Palace. 
ERIBKRT,  VITTORIA. 

Fi'ttoria.    Speak  not  of  love— it  is  a  word  with 

deep. 

Strange  magic  in  its  melancholy  sound, 
To  summon  up  the  dead  ;  anil  they  should  rest. 
At  such  an  hour,  forgotten.    There  are  things 
We  must  throw  from  us,  when  the  heart  would 

gather 

Strength  to  fulfil  its  settled  purposes; 
Therefore,  no  more  of  love!— But,  if  to  robe 
This  form  in  bridal  ornaments,  to  smile, 
(I  c«n  smile  yet.)  at  thy  gay  feast,  and  stand 
At  th'  altar  by  thy  side  ;  if  this  be  deem'd 
Enough,  it  shall  be  done. 

Kribert.  My  fortune's  star 

Doth  rule  th'  ascendant  stiil!  (jtyart.)— If  not  of 

love, 

Then  pardon,  lady,  that  I  speak  of  jay, 
And  with  exulting  heart 

PVtforin.  There  i*  no  joy! 

—Who  shall  look  through  the  far  futurity, 
And,  as  the  shadowy  visions  of  events 
Develop  on  his  gaze,  'midst  their  dim  throng. 
Dare,  with  oracular  mien,  to  point,  and  say, 
"  This  will  bring  happiness?"— Who  shall  do  this? 
— Who,  thou  and  I,  and  all1. — There's  One,  who 

sits 

In  His  own  bright  tranquillity  enthroned. 
High  o  or  ali  storms,  and  looking  fur  beyond 
Their  thickest  clouds;  but  we,  from   whose  dull 

eyes 

A  grain  of  dust  hides  the  great  sun,  e'eti  me 
Usuj-p  his  attributes,  and  talk,  as  seers. 
Of  future  joy  and  grief  1 

JCriltert.  Thy  words  are  strange. 

Wt  will  (  hope  that  peace  at  length  shall  settle 
Upon  thy  troubled  heart,  and  add  soft  grace 
To  t«v  majestic  beauty.— Fair  Vittorial 
Oti !   if  my  cares 

yittoria..  I  know  a  day  shall  come 

Of  peace  to  all.     Ev'n  from  my  darken'd  spirit 
Soon  (had  each  restless  wish  be  exorcised, 
Which  haunts  it  now,  and  I  shall  then  lie  down 
Serenely  to  repose.    Of  this  no  more. 
— I  have  a  boon  to  ask. 

Eribert.  Command  my  power, 

And  deem  it  thus  most  honour  M. 

nttoria.  Have  I  then 

Soar'd  such  an  eagle-pitch,  as  to  command 
The  mighty  Eribert  ?— And  yet  'tis  meet ; 
For  I  bethink  me  now,  I  should  have  worn 
A  crown  upon  this  forehead.— Cenerous  lord! 
Since  thus  you  give  me  freedom,  know,  there  is 
An  hour  I  have  loved  from  childhood,  and  a  sound 
Whose  tones,  o'er  earth  and  ocean  sweetly  bearing 
A  sense  of  deep  repose,  have  lull'd  me  oft 
TK  peace — which  is  forgetfulness;  I  mean 
The  Vesper-bell.     I  pray  you  let  it  be 
The  summons  to  our  bridal— Hear  you  not  1 
To  our  fair  bridal! 

Eribert.  Lady,  let  your  will 

Appoint  each  circumstance.     I  am  too  bless'd, 
Proving  my  bonaage  thus. 

nitoria.  Why,  then, 'tis  mine 

To  rule  the  glorious  fortunes  of  the  day. 
And  I  may  be  content.     Yet  much  remains 
For  thought  to  brood  on,  and  I  would  be  left 
Alone  with  my  resolves.    Kind  Eribert  1 
(Whom  I  command  so  absolutely,)  now 
Part  we  a  few  brief  hours  ;  and  doubt  not,  when 
I  am  at  thv  side  once  more,  but  (  ahaJl  stand 
Tbero— to  the  last. 


Eribert.  Your  smiles  are  troubled,  lady; 

May  they  ere  long  be  brighter!— Time  will  seem 
Slow  till  the  Vesper-bell. 

Vittoria.  'Tis  lover's  phrase 

To  say— Time  lags ;  and  therefore  meet  tor  you: 
But  with  an  equal  pace  the  hour  moves  on, 
Whether  they  bear,  on  their  swift  silent  wing, 
Pleasure  or— fate. 

Eribert.  Be  not  so  full  of  thought 

On  such  a  day. — Behold,  the  skies  themselves 
Look  on  my  joy  with  a  triumphant  smile, 
Unshadow'd  by  a  cloud. 

Vittoria.  'Tis  very  meet 

That  Heaven  (which  loves  the  just)  should  wear  a 

smile 

In  honour  of  his  fortunes. — Now,  my  lord, 
Forgive  me  if  I  say,  farewell,  until 
Th'  appointed  hour. 

Eribert.  Lady,  a  brief  farewell. 

[Exeunt  separately 


SCENE  II.—  The  Sea-Sltare 
PROCIBA,  RAIMOND. 

Proeida.  And  dost  thou  still  refuse  to  share  the 

glory 
Of  this,  our  daring  enterprise  ? 

Raimond.  Oh,  father! 

I.  too,  have  dreamt  of  glory,  and  the  word 
Hath  to  my  soul  been  as  a  trumpet's  voice, 
Making  my  nature  sleepless.— But  the  deeds 
Whereby 't  was  won,  tbe  high  exploits,  whose  tale 
Bids  the  heart  burn,  were  of  another  cast 
Than  such  as  thou  requires!. 

Proeida.  Every  deed 

Hath  sanctity,  if  bearing  for  its  aim 
The  Freedom  of  our  country;  and  the  sword 
Alike  is  honour'd  in  the  patriot's  hand, 
Searching  'midst  warrior-hosts,  the  heart  which 

gave 

Oppression  birth:  or  flashing  through  the  gloom 
Of  the  still  chamber,  o'er  its  troubled  couch, 
At  dead  of  night. 

Raimond  (turning  aunty.)    There  is  no  path  but 

oae 
For  noble  natures. 

Proeida.  Wouldst  thou  ask  the  man 

Who  to  the  earth  hath  dash'd  a  nation's  chains. 
Rent  as  with  Heaven's  own  lightning,  by  what 

means 
The  glorious  end  was  won  ?— Go,  swell  with  th' 

acclaim; 

Bid  the  deliverer,  hail!  and  if  his  path 
To  that  most  bright  and  sovereign  destiny 
Hath  led  o'er  trampled  thousands,  be  it  call'd 
A  stern  necessity,  but  not  a  crime  ! 

Raimond.    Father!  ray  soul  yet  kindles  at  the 

thought 

Of  nobler  lessons,  in  my  boyhood  learn'd 
Ev'n  from  thy  voice. — The  high  remembrances 
Of  other  day*  are  stirring  in  the  heart 
Where  thov.  didst  plant  them;  and  they  speak  of 

men 

Who  needed  no  vain  sophistry  to  gild 
Acts,  that  would  bear  Heaven's  light.— And  such 

be  minel 

Oh,  father!  is  it  yet  too  late  to  draw 
The  praise  and  blessing  of  alt  valiant  hearts 
On  our  most  righteous  cause  ? 

Proeida.  What  wouldst  thou  do  1 

Raimond.   I  would  go  forth,  and  rouse  th'  indig- 
nant land 

To  generous  combat.  Why  should  Freedom  strike 
Mantled   with    darkness?  — Is    there    not    more 

strength 

Ev'n  in  the  waving  of  her  single  arm 
Than  hosts  can  wield  against  her  ?— /would  rouse 
That  spirit,  whose  fire  doth  press  resistless  on 
To  its  proud  sphere,  the  stormy  field  of  fight ! 

Proeida.  Ay!  and  give  time  and  warning  to  the 

foe 

To  gather  all  l.is  might :— It  is  too  late. 
There  is  a  work  to  be  this  eve  begun, 
When  rings  the  Vesper-bell ;  and,  long  before 


134 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To-morrow's  sun   hath   reach'd   i'  th'   noonday 

heaven 

His  throne  of  burning  glory,  every  sound 
Of  the  Provencal  tongue  within  our  walls. 
As  by  one  thunderstroke — (you  are  pale,  my  son) — 
Shall  be  for  ever  silenced. 

Raimond.  What  !  such  sounds 

As  falter  on  the  lip  of  infancy, 
In  its  imperfect  utterance?  or  are  breathed 
By  the  fonrl  mother,  as  she  lulls  her  babe  ? 
Or  in  sweet  hymns,  upon  the  tvvili«hl  air 
Pour'd  by  the  timid  maid  ?— Must  all  alike 
Be  still'd"  in  death  ;  and  wouldst  thou  tell  my  heart 
There  is  no  crime  in  this  ? 

Procida.  Since  thou  dost  feel 

Such  horror  of  our  purpose,  in  thy  power 
Are  means  that  might  avert  it. 

Raimtmd.  Speak  !  Oh  speak  ! 

Procida.     How  would  those  rescued  thousands 

bless  thy  name, 
Shouldst  thou  betray  us ! 

Raimond.  Father!  I  can  bear- 

Ay,  proudly  woo — the  keenest  questioning 
Of  thy  soul-gifted  eye;  which  almost  seems 
To  claim  a  part  of  Heaven's  dread  royalty, 
—The  power  that  searches  thought! 

Procida  (after  a  pause.)  Thou  hast  a  brow 

Clear  as  the  day— and  yet  I  doubt  ihee,  Raimond  ! 
Whether  it  be  that  I  have  learn'd  distrust 
Prom  a  long  look  through  man's  deep-folded  heart ; 
Whether  my  paths  have  been  so  seldom  cross'd 
By  honour  and  fair  mercy,  that  they  seem 
But  beautiful  deceptions,  meeting  thus 
My  unaccustom'd  gaze  ;— howe'er  it  be — 
I  doubt  thee! — See  thou  waver  not — take  heed. 
Time  lifts  the  veil  from  all  things! 

[Exit  PROCID.V. 

Raimond.  And 'tis  thus 

Youth  fades  from  off  our  spirit :  and  the  robes 
Of  beauty  and  of  majesty,  wherewith 
We  clothed  our  idols,  drop ! — Oh !  bitter  day, 
When  at  the  crushing  of  our  elnrious  world, 
We  start,  and  fi"'l  nv--  »*  ••  '     v-t  1»>  it  so! 
Is  not  my  soul  still  powerful,  in  itselj 
To  realize  its  dreams  ? — Ay,  shrinking  not 
From  the  pure  eye  of  heaven,  my  brow  may  well 
Undaunted  meet  my  father's. — But,  away  ! 
T/iou  shall  be  saved,  sweet  Constance ! — Love  is 


Mightier  than  vengeance. 


[£xt/  RAIMOND. 


SCENE  III. — Gardens  of  •  Pal*,* 
CONSTANCE,  alone. 

Constance.  There  was  a  time  when  my  livmgnta 

wander'd  not 

Beyond  these  fairy  scenes!  when  but  lo  catch 
The  languid  fragrance  of  the  southern  breeze 
From  the  rich  flowering  citrons,  or  to  rest, 
Dreaming  of  some  wild  legend,  in  the  shade 
Of  the  dark  laurel-foliage,  was  enough 
Of  happiness. — How  have  these  calm  delights 
Fled  from  before  one  passion,  as  the  dews, 
Tli"  delicate  gems  of  morning,  are  exhaled 
By  the  great  sun  ! 

(RAIMOND  enters.) 
R.'iimond  !  oh !  now  thou  'rt  come 
I  read  it  in  thy  look,  to  say  farewell 
For  the  last  time— the  last ! 

Raimond.  Mo,  best  beloved  ! 

I  come  to  tell  thee  there  is  now  no  power 
To  part  us  but  in  death. 

Constance.  I  have  dreamt  of  joy, 

But  never  aught  like  this. — Speak  yet  again  ! 
Say,  we  shall  part  no  morel 

Raimond.  No  more,  if  love 

Can  strive  with  darker  spirits,  and  he  is  strong 
In  his  immortal  nature!  all  is  changed 
Since  last  we  met.    My  father— keep  the  tale 
Sf-crpt  from  all,  and  most  of  all,  my  Constance, 
From  Eribert — my  father  is  return'  1 : 
I  leave  thee  not. 

Constance.       Thy  father  I  blessed  sound  I 


Good  angels  be  his  guard  ! — Oh  !  if  he  knew 
How  my  soul  clings  to  thine,  he  could  no.  hate 
Even  a  Provencal  maid  ! — Thy  father!— now 
Thy  soul  will  be'at  peace,  and  I  shall  see 
The  sunny  happiness  of  earlier  days 
Look  from  thy  brow  ouc<:  more  ! — But  how  is  thi* 
Thine  eye  reflects  not  the  glad  soul  of  mine  ; 
And  in  thy  look  is  that  which  ill  befits 
A  tale  of  joy. 

Raimond.       A  dream  is  on  my  soul. 
I  see   a  skunberer,  crown'd   with   flowers,   and 

smiling 

As  in  delighted  visions,  on  the  brink 
Of  a  dread  chasm  ;  and  this  strange  phantasy 
Hath  cast  so  deep  a  shadow  o'er  my  thoughts, 
I  cannot  but  be  sad. 

Constance.  Why,  let  me  sing 

One  of  the  sweet  wild  strains  you  love  so  well. 
And  this  will  banish  it. 

Raimond.  It  may  not  be. 

Oh  !  gentle  Constance,  go  not  forth  to-day  : 
Such  dreams  are  ominous. 

Constance.  Have  you  then  forgot 

My  brother's  nuptial  feast  ? — I  must  be  one 
Of  the  gay  train  attending  to  the  shrine 
His  stately  bride.     In  sooth,  my  step  of  joy 
Will  print  earth  lightly  now. — What  fear'st  thou, 

love? 

Look  all  around!  the  blue  transparent  skies, 
And  sunbeams  pouring  a  more  buoyant  life 
Through  each  glad  thrilling  vein,  will   brightly 

chase 

All  thought  of  evil. — Why,  the  very  air 
Breathes   of  delight! — Through   all  its  glowing 

realms 

Doth  music  blend  with  fragrance,  and  e'en  here 
The  city's  voice  of  jubilee  is  heard. 
Till  each  light  leaf  seems  trembling  unto  sounds 
Of  human  joy  ! 

Raimond.        There  tie  far  deeper  things, — 
Things  that  may  darken  thought  for  life,  beneath 
That  city's  festive  semblance — I  have  pass'd 
Through  the  glad  multitudes,  and  1  have  mark'd 
A  stern  intelligence  in  meeting  eyes-. 
Which  deern'd  their  flash  unnoticed,  arid  a  quick, 
S  ispieious  vigilance,  too  intent  to  clothe 
Its  mien  with  carelessness  ;  and  now  and  then, 
A  hurrying  start,  a  whisper,  or  a  hand 
Pointing  by  stealth  to  some  one,  singled  out 
Amidst  the  reckless  throng.    O'er  all  is  spread 
A  mantling  flush  of  revelry,  which  may  hide 
Much  from  unpractised  eyes;  but  lighter  signs 
Have  been  prophetic  oft. 

Constance.  1  tremble ! — Raimond  1 

What  may  these  things  portend? 

Raimond.  It  was  a  day 

Of  festival,  like  this  ;  the  city  sent 
Up  through  her  sunny  firmament  a  voice 
Joyous  as  now;  when,  scarcely  heralded 
By  one  deep  moan,  forth  from  his  cavernous  depths 
Tho  earthquake   burst;    and   the   wide  splendid 

scene 

Became  one  chaos  of  all  fearful  things. 
Till  the  brain  whirl'd,  partaking  the  sick  motion 
Of  rocking  palaces. 

Constance.  And  then  didst  thou, 

My  noble  Raimond  !  through  the  dreadful  paths 
Laid  open  by  destruction,  pnst  the  chasms. 
Whose  fathomless  clefts,  a  moment's  work,  had 

given 

One  burial  unto  thousands,  rush  to  save 
Thy  trembling  Constance  !  she  who  lives  to  bless 
Thy  generous  love,  that  still  the  breath  of  Heaven 
Wafts  gladness  to  her  soul  ! 

Raimond.  Heaven  (—Heaven  is  jus!  . 

And  being  so,  must  guard  thee,  sweet  one,  still. 
Trust  none  beside.— Oh  !  the  omnipotent  skies 
Make  their  wrath  manifest,  but  insidious  man 
Doth  compass  those  he  hates  with  secret  snares. 
Wherein  lies  fate.    Know,  danger  walks  abroad, 
Mask'd  as  a  reveller.    Constance!  oh!  by  all 
Our  tried  affection,  all  the  vows  which  bind 
Our  hearts  together,  meet  me  in  these  bower*. 
Here,  I  adjure  thee,  meet  me,  when  the  bell 
Doth  sol  nd  for  vesper-prayer  t 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


136 


Constance.  And  know'st.  thnu  not 

'Twill  be  the  bridal  hour? 

Raimond.  It  will  not,  love  ! 

That  hour  will  bring  no  bridal !-  Naught  of  this 
To  human  ear  ;  but  speed  thou  hither,  fly. 
When   evening  brings   that  signal.  —  Dost   thou 

heed! 

This  is  no  meeting,  by  a  lover  sought 
To   breathe   fond  tales,   and  make   the    twilight 

groves 

And  stars  attest  his  vows;  deem  thou  not  so, 
Therefore  denying  it!-— I  tell  thee,  Constance! 
If  thou  wouldst  save  me  from  such  fierce  despair 
As  falls  on  man,  beholding  all  he  loves 
Perish  before  him,  while  his  strength  can  but 
Strive  with  his  agony — thou'lt  meet  me  then? 
Look  on  me,  love ! — I  am  not  oft  so  moved — 
Thou'lt  meet  me? 

Constance.  Oh!  what  mean  thy  words? — If  then 
My  «teps  are  free, — I  will.     Be  thou  but  cairn. 

Raimond.   Be  calm  ! — there  is  a  cold  and  sullen 

calm, 

And,  were  my  wild  fears  made  realities, 
It  might  he  mine  ;  but,  in  this  dread  suspense. 
This?  conflict  of  all  terrible  plantasies, 
There  is  no  calm.— Yet  fear  thou  not,  dear  love1 
I  wili  watch  o'er  thee  still.    And  now,  farewell 
Until  that  hour! 

Constance.    My  Raimond,  fare  thee  well. 

[Ezeunt. 


SCENE  IV.— Room  in  the  Citadel  of  Palermo. 
A  LBERTI,  DE  Couci. 

De  Couci.  Said'st  thou  this  night  ? 
Alberti.  This  very  night — and  lo  ! 

E'en  now  the  sun  declines. 
De  Couci.  What  I  are  they  arm'd  ? 

Alberti.  All  arm'd  and  strong  in  vengeance  and 

despair. 
De  Couci.    Doubtful  and  strange  the  tale!  Why 

was  not  this  reveal'd  before  ? 
Albcrli.  Mistrust  me  not,  my  lord  I 

That  stern  and  jealous  Procida  hath  kept 
O'er  all  my  steps,  (as  though  he  did  suspect 
The  purposes,  which  oft  his  eye  Iiuth  sought 
To  read  in  mine,)  a  watch  so  vigilant, 
I  knew  not  how  to  warn  thee,  though  for  this 
A  one  I  mingled  with  his  bands,  to  learn 
Their  projects  and  their  strength.    Thou  know'st 

my  faith 
To  Anjou's  house  full  well. 

De  Couci.  How  may  we  now 

Avert  the  gathering  storm  ?— The  viceroy  holds 
His  bridal  f.'ast.  and  all  is  revelry. 
— 'Twas  a  true-boding  heaviness  of  heart 
Which  kept  me  from  these  nuptials. 

Albtrti.  Thou  thyself 

May'st  yet  escape,  and,  haply  of  thy  bands 
Rescue  a  part,  ere  long  to  wreak  full  vengeance 
Upon  these  rebels.    'Tis  too  late  to  dream 
Of  saving  Eribert.     E'en  shouldst  thou  rush 
Before  him  with  the  tidings,  in  his  pride 
And  confidence  of  soul,  he  would  but  laugh 
Thy  tale  to  scorn. 

De  Couci.  He  must  not  die  unwarn'd, 

Though  it  be  all  in  vain.     But  thou,  Alberti, 
Rejoin  thy  comrades,  lest  thine  absence  wake 
Suspicion  in  their  hearts.    Thou  hast  done  well. 
And  shall  not  pass  unguerdon'd,  should  I  live 
Through  the  deep  horrors  of  th'  approaching  night 
Alherti.  Noble  De  Couci,  trust  me  still.     Anjou 
Commands  no  heart  more  faithful  than  Alberti's. 
[Exit  Alberti 
De  Covci.   The  grovelling  slave !— And  yet  hi 

spoke  too  true ! 

For  Eribert,  in  blind  elated  joy, 
Will  scorn  the  warning  voice.— The  day  wane 

fast, 

And  through  the  city,  recklessly  dispersed, 
Unarm'd  and  unprepared,  my  soldiers  revel, 
E'en  on  the  brink  of  fate.— I  must  away. 

(Exit  De  Couci 


SCENE  V.— A  Banqueting  Hall. 
PROVENCAL  NOBLES  assembled. 

First.  Noble.    Joy  be  to  this  fair  meeting ! — Who 

hath  seen 
?he  viceroy's  bride  ? 

Second  Noble.  I  saw  her,  as  she  pass'd 

The  gazing  throngs  assembled  in  the  city. 
Tis  said  she  hath  not  left  for  years,  till  now, 
Jer  castle's  wood-girt  solitude.    'Twill  gall 
These  proud  Sicilians,  that  her  wide  domains 
Should  be  the  conqueror's  guerdon. 

Third  Noble.  'Twas  their  boast 

,Vith  what  fond  faith  she  worshipped  still  the  name 
Of  the  boy,  Conradin.     How  will  the  slaves 
Jrook  this  new  triumph  of  their  lords? 

Second  Noble.  In  sooth, 

[t  stings  them  to  the  quick.     In  the  full  streets 
They  mix  with  our  Provencals,  and  assume 
A  guise  of  mirth,  but  it  sits  hardly  on  them. 
Twere  worth  a  thousand  festivals,  to  see 
With  what  a  bitter  and  unnatural  effort 
They  strive  to  smile! 

FirstNoblf..  Is  this  Vittoria  fair  ? 

Second  Noble.    Of  a  most  noble  mien  ;  but  yet 

her  beauty 

Is  wild  and  awful,  and  her  large  dark  eye. 
In  its  unsettled  glances,  hath  strange  power, 
From  which  thou'lt  shrink,  as  I  did. 

First  Noble.  Hush  I  they  come. 

Enter  ERIBERT,  VITTORIA,  CONSTANCE,  and  others. 

Eribert.    Welcome,   my   noble  friends !— there 

must  not  lower 

One  clouded  brow  to-day  in  Sicily! 
Behold  my  bride ! 

Nobles.  Receive  our  homage,  lady 

Vittoria.   I  bid  all  welcome.    May  the  feast  w« 

offer 
Prove  worthy  of  such  guests! 

F.ribert.    Look  on  her,  friends  ! 
And  say,  if  that  majestic  brow  is  not 
Meet  for  a  diadem  ? 

Vittoria.  'Tis  well,  my  lord! 

When  memory's  pictures  fade,  'tis  kindly  don 
To  bri-'hten  thsir  dimtn'd  hues! 

First  Noble  (apart.)          Mark'd  you  her  glance  ? 

Second  Noble  (apart.)    What  eloquent  icorn  was 

there  ?  Yet  he.  th'  elate 
Of  heart,  perceives  it  not. 

Eribert.  Now  to  the  feast! 

Constance,  you  look  not  joyous.     I  have  said 
That  all  should  smile  to-day. 

Constance.  '  Forgive  me,  brother 

The  heart  is  wayward,  and  its  garb  of  pomp 
At  times  oppresses  it. 

Eribert.  Why,  how  is  this  ? 

Constance.  Voices  of  woe,  and  prayers  of  agony 
Unto  my  soul  have  risen,  and  left  sad  sounds 
There  echoing  still.    Yet  would  I  fain  be  gay. 
Since  'tis  your  wish.- In  truth,  I  should  have  been 
A  village-maid ! 

Eribert.  But,  being  as  you  are, 

Not  thus  ignobly  free,  command  your  looks 
(They  may  be  taught  obedience)  to  reflect 
The  aspect  of  the  time. 

Vittoria.  And  know,  fair  maid  ! 

That  if  in  this  unskill'd,  you  stand  alone 
Amidst  our  court  of  pleasure. 

Eribert  To  the  feast  I 

Now  let  the  red  wine  foam!— There  should  b« 

When 'conquerors  revel!— Lords  of  this  fair  isle! 
Your  good  swords' heritage,  crown  each  bowl,  and 

The  pres6enteand  the  future!  for  they  Loth 
Look  brightly  on  us.    Dost  thou  smile,  my  bride  T 
Vittoria.  Yes,  Eribert !— thy  prophecies  of  joy 

Eribert.  'Tis  well.     To-day 

I  have  won  a  fair  and  almost  royal  bride  ; 
To-morrow— let  the  bright  sun  spread  his  course. 
To  waft  me  happiness!— my  proudest  foes 
Must  die— and  then  my  slumber  shall  be  laid 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


On  rose-leaves,  with  no  envious  fold,  to  mar 
The  luxury  of  its  visions!— Fair  Viltoria, 
Your  looks  are  troubled ! 

yittoria.  It  is  strange,  but  oft, 

•Midst  festal  soups  and  garlands,  o'er  my  soul 
Death  comes,  with  some  dull  image-!  as  you  spoke 
Of  those  whose  blood  is  claim'd,  I  thought  for  them 
Who,  in  a  darkness  thicker  than  the  night 
E'er  wove  with  all  her  clouds,  have  pined  so  long. 
How  bless'd  were  the  stroke  which  makes  them 

things 

Of  that  invisible  world,  wherein,  we  trust, 
There  is  at  least  no  bondage! — But  should  we 

torn  such  a  scene  as  this,  where  all  earth's  joys 

ontend  for  mastery,  and  the  very  sense 

f  life  is  rapture ;  should  we  pass.  I  say, 
At  once  from  such  excitements  to  the  void 
And  silent  gloom  of  that  which  doth  await  us— 
—  Were  it  not  dreadful  ? 

F.ribert.  Banish  such  dark  thoughts  ! 

They  ill  beseem  the  hour. 

yittoria.  There  is  no  hour 

Of  this  mysterious  world,  in  joy  or  woe, 
But  they  beseem  it  well !— Why,  what  a  slight. 
Impalpable  bound  is  that,  th'  unseen,  which  severs 
Being  from  death!— And  who  can  tell  how  near 
Its  misty  brink  he  stands? 

First  JVolile  (aside.)         What  mean  her  words  ? 

Srrtmd  JVbWe.  There's  some  dark  mystery  here. 

Krikert.  No  more  of  this! 

Pour  the  bright  juice  which  Etna's  glowing  vines 
Yield  to  the  conquerors!  And  let  music's  voice 
Dispel  these  ominous  dreams !— Wake,  harp  and 

song ! 
Swell  out  your  triumph! 

./?  Messenger  enters,  bearing  a  letter 
Messenger.     Pardon,  my  good  lord  I 

But  this  demands 

Eribert.  What  means  thy  breathless  haste? 
And  that  ill- boding  mien  ?— Away !  such  look* 
Befit  not  hours  like  these. 

nffssfiffr.  The  Lord  De  Couci 

Bade  me  bear  this,   and  say,    tis  fraught  with 

tidings 
Of  life  and  death. 

yittoria  (hurriedly.')     Is  this  a  time  for  aught 
But  revelry  ? — My  lord,  these  dull  intrusions 
Mar  the  bright  spirit  of  the  festal  scene  ! 

Eribert  (to  Ike  Messenger.)    Hence  !  tell  the  Lord 

de  Couci,  we  will  talk 
Of  life  and  death  to-morrow.      [Exit  MESSENOBB 

Let  there  be 

Around  me  none  but  joyous  looks  to-day. 
And  strains  whose  very  echoes  wake  to  mirth ! 
(J)  band  of  the  conspirators  enter,  to  Ike  sound  ef 
music,  disguised  as  shepherds  bacchanals,  ifc.) 
Eribert.    What  forms  are  these?— What  means 

this  antic  triumph? 

yittoria.  'Tis  but  a  rustic  pageant,  by  my  vassal* 
Prepared  to  grace  our  bridal.     Will  you  not 
Hear  their  wild  music?  Our  Sicilian  vales 
Have  many  a  sweet  and  mirthful  melody. 
To  which  the  glad  heart  bounds. — Breathe  ye  some 

strain 
Meet  for  the  time,  ye  sons  of  Sicily ! 

(One  of  the  Masquers  sings.) 

The  festal  eve,  o'er  earth  and  sky, 

In  her  sunset  robe,  looks  bright. 
And  the  purple  hills  of  Sicily, 

With  their«vineyards,  laugh  in  light, 
From  the  marble  cities  of  her  plains, 

Glad  voices  mingling  swell; 
— But  with  yet  more  loud  and  lofty  strains. 

They  shall  hail  the  Vesper-bell ! 

Oh!  sweet  its  tones,  when  the  summer-breeze 

Their  cadence  wafts  afar. 
To  float  o'er  the  blue  Sicilian  seas. 

As  they  gleam  to  the  first  pale  star! 
The  shepherd  greets  them  on  his  height, 

The  hermit  in  his  cell ; 
—But  a  deeper  voice  shall  breathe,  to-night. 

In  the  sound  of  the  Vesper-bell ! 

[The  Bellringt. 


Eribert.  It  is  the  hour! — Hark,  hark  ! — my  brid% 

our  summon:- ! 
The  altar  is  prepared  and  crown'd  with  dowers 

That  wait 

yittoria.        The  victim! 

(A  tumult  heard  wit/tout.) 

PROCXDA  and  MONTALBA  enter,  with  others,  Armed. 

Procida.  Strike!  the  hour  is  come 

yittoria.     Welcome,  avengers,  welcome!     Now 
be  strong ! 

( The  Conspirators  throw  off  their  disguise ,  and  rush, 
with  their  swords  drawn,  upon  the  Provencals. 
ERIBERT  is  wounded,  and  falls.) 

Procida.   Now  hath  fate  reach'd  thee  in  thy  mid 

career, 
Thou  reveller  in  a  nation's  agonies! 

(The  Provencals  are  driven  off,  and  pursued  by  the 
Sicilians.) 

Conttance  (supporting  Eribert.)  My  brother  !  oh 
my  brother! 

Eribert.  Have  I  stood 

A  leader  in  the  battle-fields  of  kings, 
To  perish  thus  at  last  ? — Ay.  by  these  pangs. 
And  this  strauae  chill,  that  heavily  doth  creep. 
Like  a  slon-  poison,  through  my  curdling  veins, 

his  should  h-  -death !— In  sooth,  a  dull  exchange 
For  the  gay  bridal  feast! 

Voices  (without.)    Remember  Conradin  1—  spare 
noTie.  spare  none. 

yittoria  (throwing  off  her  bridal  wreath  and  orna- 
ments.) 

This  is  proud  freedom!  Now  my  soul  may  cast, 
In  fffiiprons  scorn,  her  mantle  of  dissembling 
To  e:irth  for  ever!— And  it  is  such  joy, 
As  if  a  captive  from  his  dull,  cold  cell, 
MiL'ht  soar  at  once,  on  chartor'd  wing,  to  range 
The  realms  of  starr'd  infinity  ! — Away? 
Vain  mockery  of  a  bri.lal  wreath!    The  hour 
For  which  stern  patience  ne'er  kept  watch  in  vain 
Is  come :  and  I  may  give  my  bursting  heart 
Full  and  indignant  tcope. — Now,  Eribert! 
Believe  in  retrib.ition !  What,  proud  man  ! 
Prince,  ruler,  conqueror!  didst  thou  deem  Heaven 

slept  .' 

"  Or  that  the  iimwn.  immortal  ministers, 
"  Ranging  the  world,  to  note  e'en  purposed  crime 
"In  burning  characters,  had  laid  aside 
"Their  everlasting  attributes  for  thee?" 
— Oh!  blind  security! — He.  in  whose  dread  hand 
The  lightnings  vibrate,  holds  them  back,  until 
The  trampler  of  this  goodly  earth  hath  reaeh'd 
His  pyramid-height  of  power ;  that  so  his  fall 
May,  with  more  fearPil  oracles,  make  pale 
Man's  crown'd  oppressors ! 

Constance.  Oh!  reproach  him  not! 

His  soul  is  trembling  on  the  dizzy  brink 
Of  that  dim  world  where  passion  may  not  enter. 
Leave  him  in  peace. 

yoiees  (without.)    Anjou.   Anjou  !— De  Couei,  to 
the  rescue ! 

Eribert  (half  raising-  Mmsetf.)    My  brave  Pro- 

vencals !  do  ye  combat  still  ? 
And  I,  yoiir  chief,  am  here  !— Now,  now  I  feel 
That  death,  indeed,  is  bitter! 

yittoria.  Fare  thee  well! 

Thine  eyes  so  oft,  with  their  insulting  smile. 
Have  lookM  on  man's  last  pangs,  thou  shouldst, 

by  this, 
Be  perfect  how  to  die  !  [Exit.  VITTORIA. 

RAIMONO  enters. 

Raimond.  Away,  my  Constance  I 

Now  is  the  time  for  flight.  Our  slaughtering  bandl 
Are  scatter'd  far  and  wide.     A  little  while 
And  thou  shall  be  in  safety.     Know'st  thou  nof 
That  low  sweet  vale,  where  dwells  th«  holy  man 
Anselmo?     He  whose  hermitage  is  rear'd 
'Mid  some  old  temple's  ruins? — Round  the  spot 
His  name  hath  spread  so  pure  and  deep  a  charm, 
Tis  hallow'd  as  a  sanctuary,  wherein 
Thou  shalt  securely  bide,  till  this  wild  storm 
Have  snent  its  fury.    Haste) 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


137 


Constance.  I  will  not  fly! 

While  in  his  heart  there  is  one  throb  of  life, 
One  spiirk  in  his  dim  eyes.  I  will  not  leave 
The  brother  of  my  youth  to  perish  thus. 
Without  one  kindly  bosom  to  sustain 
His  dying  head. 

Eribert.              The  clouds  are.  darkening  round. 
There  are  strange  voices  ringing  in  mine  ear 
That  summon  me— lo  what  ?—  But  I  have  been 
Used  to  command  ! — Away  !  I  will  not  die 
But  on  tli.-  field [fie  dies. 

Constance  (kneeling  by  him.)    Oh   Heaven'  be 

merciful. 

As  thou  art  just! — fur  he  is  now  where  naught 
But  mercy  can  avail  him.— It  is  past! 

GOIDO  enters,  with  Iris  award  drawn. 

Guide  (to  RAIMOND.)     I've   sought   thee  long— 

Whv  art  thou  lingering  here? 
Haste   follow  me  !— 8u.=j)icion  with  thy  name 
Joins  thnt  word — Traitor! 

h'aimoiid.  Traitorl Guido  ? 

Out  do.  Yes 

I':i-t  thou  not  heard,  that,  with  his  men-at-arms, 
After  vain  conflict  with  a  people's  wrath, 
D>-  Couci  hath  escaped  ?—  And  there  are  those 
Who  murmur  that  from  tliee  the  warning  came 
Which  saved  him  from  our  vengeance.     But  e'en 

yet, 

In  the  red  current  of  Provencal  Mood, 
That  doubt  may  be  effaced.  Draw  thy  good  sword, 
And  follow  me! 

Raimond.  And  thou  conldst  doubt  me,  Guido  I 
Tiscome  to  this! — Away!   mistrust  me  still. 
I  will  not  stain  my  sword  with  deeds  like  thine. 
Thou  know'st  me  not! 

Guido.  Raimond  di  Procida! 

If  thou  art  he  wnom  once  I  deem'd  so  noble — 
Call  me  thy  friend  no  more!  [ Exit  GUIDO. 

Raimend (after  a  pni/se.l     Rise,  dearest,  risel 
Thy  duty's  task  hath  nobly  been  fulfill'd, 
E'en  in  the  face  of  death  ;  but  all  is  o'er, 
And  this  is  now  no  plpre  v.  here  nature's  tear* 
In  quiet  sanctity  may  frceJy  flow. 
— Hark!  the  wild  sounds  that  wait  on  fearful 

deeds 

Are  swelling  on  the  wind    <ts  the  deep  roar 
Of  fast-advancing  billows,  and  for  thee 
I  shame  not  thus  to  tremble.— Speed !  oh,  speed! 


ACT  THE  FOURTH 

SCENE  I. — 1  Street  in  Palermo 

PROCIDA  enters. 

Prtcida.  How  strange  and  deep  a  stillness  loads 

the  air, 

As  with  the  power  of  midnight!— Ay,  where  death 
Hath  pass'd,  there  should  be  silence. — But  this  hush 
Of  nature's  heart,  this  breathlessness  of  all  things, 
Doth  press  on  thought  too  heavily,  and  the  sky, 
With  its  dark  robe  of  purple  thunder-clouds 
Brooding  in  sullen  masses,  o'er  my  spirit 
Weighs  like  an  omen  !— Wherefore  should  this  be  1 
s  not  our  task  achieved,  the  mighty  work 
Of  our  deliverance? — Yes;  I  should  be  joyous: 
But  this  our  feeble  nature,  with  its  quick 
Instinctive  superstitions,  will  drag  down 
Th'  ascending  soul. — And  I  have  fearful  boding* 
That  treachery  lurks  amongst  us.  —  Raimond  1 

Raimond! 

Oh!  Guilt  ne'er  made  a  mien  like  his  its  garb  I 
It  cannot  be ! 

MONT-ALBA,  Gnioo,  and  other  Sicilians,  enter. 

Procida.        Welcome  1  we  meet  in  joy  I 
Now  may  we  bear  ourselves  erect,  resuming 
The  kingly  port  of  freemen  !  Who  shall  dare. 
After  this  proof  of  slavery's  dread  recoil, 
To  weave  us  chains  again  ? — Ye  have  done  well. 

Montalba.    Vie  have  done  well.    There  need  no 

choral  song. 

No  shouting  multitudes,  to  blazon  forth 
Our  stern  exploits. — The  silence  of  our  foes 


Doth  vouch  enough,  and  they  are  laid  to  rest 
Deep  as  ihr  sword  could  make  it.     Yet  our  task 
Is  si  HI  hut  half  achieved,  since,  with  his  bands, 
De  Couci  hath  escaped,  and,  doubtless,  leads 
Their  footsteps  to  Messina,  where  our  foes 
Will  L'.-i!  lii-rall  their  strength.  Determined  hearts 
And  deeds  to  startle  earth,  are  yet  required, 
To  make  the  mighty  sacrifice  complete. — 
Where  is  thy  sou  ? 

Procida.  I  know  not.    Once  last  night 

He  cri  iss'd  my  path,  and  with  one  stroke  beat  down 
A  sword  just  raised  to  smite  me,  and  restored 
My  own,  which  in  that  deadly  strife  had  been 
Wrench'd  from  my  grasp:  but  when  1  would  have 

pivss'fl  him 

To  my  exulting  bosom,  he  drew  back. 
And  with  a  sail,  and  yet  a  scornful  smile. 
Full  of  strange  meaning,  left  me.  Since  that  hour 
I  have  not  seen  him.    Wherefore  ilidsl  thou  ask  1 

Montalba.     It  diallers  not.  We  have  deep  things 

to  speak  of. — 

Know'st  thou  that  we  have  traitors  in  our  coun- 
cils? 

Procida.  I  know  some  voice  in  secret  must  have 

warn'd 

De  Couci ;  or  his  scatter'd  hands  had  ne'er 
So  soon  been  marshall'd,  and  in  close  array 
Led   hence  as  from   the   field.— Hast   thou  heard 

aught 
That  may  develop  this? 

Montalba.  The  guards  we  set 

To  watch  the  city  gates,  have  seized,  this  morn, 
One  whose  quick  fearful  glance,  and  hurried  step, 
Betray'd  his  guilty  purpose.     Mark  !  he  bore 
(Amidst  the  tumult  deeming  that  his  flight 
Might  all  unnoticed  pass,)  these  scrolls  to  him,. 
The  fugitive  Provencal.     Read  and  judge! 

Procida.     Where  is  this  messenger  ? 

Moutnlba.  Where  should  he  be  ? — 

They  slew  him  in  their  wrath. 

Procida.  Unwisely  done! 

Give  me  the  scrolls. 

life  reads. 

Now,  if  there  be  such  things 
As  may  to  death  add  sharpness,  yet  delay 
The  pang  which  gives  release  ;  if  there  be  power 
In  execration,  to  call  down  the  fires 
Of  you  avenging  heaven,  whose  rapid  shafts 
But  for  such  guilt  were  aimless ;  be  they  heap'd 
Upon  the  traitor's  head! — Scorn  make  his  name 
Her  mark  for  everl 

Montalba.  In  our  passionate  blindness. 

We  send  forth  curses,  whose  deep  stings  recoil 
Oft  on  ourselves. 

Procida.  Whate'er  fate  hath  of  ruin 

Fall  on  his  house  ! — What !  to  resign  again 
That  freedom  for  whose  sake  our  souls  have  now 
Engrain'd  themselves  in  blood! — Why,  who  is  he 
That  hath  devised  this  treachery  ?— To  the  scroll 
Why  ftx'd  he  not  his  name,  so  stamping  it 
With  an  immortal  infamy,  whose  brand 
Might  warn  men  from  him  ? — Who  should  be  so 

vile? 

Alberti  ?— In  his  eye  is  that  which  ever 
Shrinks  from  encountering  mine  1— But  no  I  his 

race 

Is  of  our  noblest— Oh!  he  could  not  shame 
That  high  descent !— Urbino  ?— Conti  ?— No ! 
They  are  too  deeply  pledged.— There's  one  name 

more ! 

—I  cannot  titter  it !— Now  shall  I  read 
Each  face  with  cold  suspicion,  which  doth  blot 
From  man's  high  mien  its  native  royalty, 
And  seal  his  noble  forehead  with  the  impress 
Of  its  own  vile  imaginings !— Speak  your  thoughts, 
Montalba  !  Guido !— Who  should  this  man  be  ? 

Montalba.  Why,  what  Sicilian  youth  unsheathed 

last  night 

His  sword  to  aid  our  foes,  and  turn  d  its  edge 
Against  his  country's  chiefs— He  that  did  this, 
May  well  be  deem'd  for  guiltier  treason  ripe. 

Procida.    And  who  is  he  ? 

Montalba.  Nay,  ask  thy  son. 

Procida.  My  v»» 

What  should  he  know  of  such  a  recrean'  k«  tt> 
Speak,  Guido  I  thou'rt  his  friend  I 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Guide.  I  would  not  wear 

The  brand  of  such  a  name  t 

Procida.  How  ?  what  means  this  ? 

A  flash  of  light  breaks  in  upon  my  soul  1 
Is  it  to  blast  me  ?— Yet  the  fearful  doubt 
Hath  crept  in  darkness  through  my  thoughts  before. 
And  been  flung  from  them. — Silence! — Speak  not 

yet! 

I  would  be  calm,  and  meet  the  thunder-burst 
With  a  strong  heart.  \J1  pause. 

Now,  what  have  I  to  hear  ? 
Your  tidings? 

Ouido.  Briefly,  'twas  your  son  did  thus: 

He  hath  disgraced  your  name. 

Procida.  My  son  did  thus  I 

Are  thy  words  oracles,  that  I  should  search 
Their  hidden  meaning  out? — What  did  my  son? 
I  have  forgot  the  tale. — Repeat  it,  quick  ! 

Ouido.    'Twill   burst  upon   thee   all  too  soon. 

While  we 

Were  busy  at  the  dark  and  solemn  rites 
Of  retribution ;  while  we  bathed  the  earth 
In  red  libations,  which  will  consecrate 
The  soil  they  mingled  with  to  freedom's  step 
Through  the  long  march  of  ages ;  'twas  his  task 
To  shield  from  danger  a  Provencal  maid. 
Sister  of  him  whose  cold  oppression  stung 
Our  hearts  to  madness. 

Mental  ha.  What !  should  she  be  spared 

To  keep  that  name  from  perishing  on  earth  ? 
— I  cross'd  them  in  their  path,  and  raised  my  sword 
To  smite  her  in  her  champion's  arms.— We  fought. 
The  boy  disarm'd  me ! — And  I  live  to  tell 
My  shame,  and  wreak  my  vengeance! 

Ouido.  Who  but  he 

Could  warn  De  Couci,  or  devise  the  guilt 
These  scrolls  reveal  ?— Hath  not  the  traitor  still 
Bought,  with  his  fair  and  specious  eloquence. 
To  win  us  from  our  purpose  ?— All  things  seem 
Leagued  to  unmask  him. 

Mont  alba.  Know  you  not  there  came 

E'en  in  the  banquet's  hour,  from  this  De  Couci, 
One,  bearing  unto  Eribert  the  tidings 
Of  all  our  purposed  deeds  ? — And  have  we  not 
Proof,  as  the  noon-day  clear,  that  Raimoud  loves 
The  sister  of  that  tyrant? 

Procida.  There  was  one 

Who  mourn'd  for  being  childless ! — Let  him  now 
Feast  o'er  his  children's  graves,  and  I  will  join 
The  revelry  1 

Montalba  (apart.)  You  shall  be  childless  too  ! 

Procida.    Was't  you,  Montalba? — Now  rejoice, 

I  say  I 

There  is  no  name  so  near  you,  that  its  stains 
Should  call  the  fever'd  and  indignant  blood 
To  your  dark  cheek  ! — But  I  will  dash  to  earth 
The  weight  that  presses  on  my  heart,  and  then 
Be  glad  as  thou  art. 

Montalba.  What  means  this,  my  lord  ? 

Who  hath  seen  gladness  on  Montalba's  mien  ? 

Procida.    Why,  should  not  all  be  glad  who  have 

no  sons 
To  tarnish  their  bright  name? 

Montalba.  I  am  not  used 

To  bear  with  mockery. 

Procida.  Friend  !  By  yon  high  Heaven, 

I  mock  thee  not ! — 'T  is  a  proud  fate,  to  live 
Alone  and  unallied.— Why,  what's  alone? 
A  word  whose  sense  is—free! — Ay,  free  from  all 
The  venom'd  stings  implanted  in  the  heart 
'!>•  those  it  loves. — Oh  I  I  could  laugh  to  think 
>'  th'  joy  that  riots  in  baronial  halls, 
When  the  word  comes — "  A  son  is  born  t" — A  son! 
—They  should  say  thus—'*  He  that  shall  knit  your 

brow 

To  furrows,  not  of  years';  and  bid  your  eye 
Quail  its  proud  glance,  to  tell  the  earth  its  shame, 
Is  born,  and  so  rejoice  !" — then  might  we  feast. 
And  know  the  cause  I— Were  it  not  excellent  ? 

Montalba.  This  is  all  idle.   There  are  deeds  to  do  • 
Arouse  thee,  Procida  1 

Procida.  Why,  am  I  not 

Calm  as  immortal  Justice  ? — She  can  strike. 
And  yet  be  passionless — and  thus  will  I. 
I  know  thy  meaning. — Deeds  to  do  ! — 't  is  well. 
They  shall  be  done  ere  thought  on.— Go  ye  forth . 


There  is  a  youth  who  calls  himself  my  son. 
His  name  is — Kaimond — in  his  eye  is  light 
That  shows  like  truth— but  be  not  ye  deceived  I 
Bear  him  in  chains  before  us.    We  will  sit 
To-day  in  judgment,  and  the  skies  shall  see 
The  strength  which  girds  our  nature. — Will  noj 

this 

Be  glorious,  brave  Montalba  ? — Linger  not. 
Ye  tardy  messengers  !  for  there  are  things 
Which  ask  the  speed  of  storms. 

[Exeunt  GCIDO  and  others. 

Is  not  this  well  ? 

Montalba.    'T  is  noble.    Keep  thy  spirit  to  thia 

proud  height, 

(aside.)  And  then — be  desolate  like  me !— my  woe* 
Will  at  the  thought  grow  light. 

Procida.  What  now  remain* 

To  be  prepared  ? — There  should  be  solemn  pomp 
To  grace  a  day  like  this.— Ay,  breaking  hearts 
Require  a  drapery  to  conceal  their  throbs 
From  cold  inquiring  eyes  ;  and  it  must  be 
Ample  and  rich,  that  so  their  gaze  may  not 
Explore  what  lies  beneath.  |  Exit  PROCIDA 

Montalba.  Now  this  is  well ! 

— I  hate  this  Procida ;  for  he  hath  won 
In  all  our  councils  that  ascendency 
And  mastery  o'er  bold  hearts,  which  should  have 

been 

Mine  by  a  thousand  claims. — Had  he  the  strength 
Of  wrongs   like  mine? — No  I  for  that  name— his 

country — 

He  strikes — my  vengpance  hath  a  deeper  fount : 
But  there's  dark  joy  in  this! — And  fate  hath  barr'd 
My  soul  from  every  other.  [Exit  MONTALBA. 

SCENE  II. — d  Hermitage  surrounded  by  the  Kuini 
of  an  Ancient  Temple. 

CONSTANCE,  ANSELMO. 

Constance.   'Tis  strange  he  comes  not! — Is  not 

this  the  still 

And  sultry  hour  of  noon  ? — Hr  should  have  been 
Here  by  the  day-break. — Was  there  not  a  voice  ? 
— "  No !  't  is  the  shrill  Cicada,  with  glad  life 
Peopling  these  marble  ruins,  as  it  sports 
Amidst  them,  in  the  sun." — Hark  !  yet  again  I 
No!  no!— Forgive  me,  father!  that  I  bring 
Earth's  restless  griefs  and  passions,  to  disturb 
The  stillness  of  thy  holy  solitude: 
My  heart  is  full  of  care. 

Jlnxelmo.  There  is  no  place 

So  hallow'd,  as  to  be  unvisited 
By  mortal  cares.     Nay,  whither  should  we  go, 
With  our  deep  griefs  and  passions,  but  to  scene* 
Lonely  and  still ;  where  he  that  made  our  hearts 
Will  speak  to  them  in  whispers  ?   I  have  known 
Affliction  too,  my  daughter. 

Constance.  Hark!  his  step! 

I  know  it  well— he  comes— my  Rai  mond.  welcome 

VITTORIA  enters,  CONSTANCE  shrinks  back  on  per 
eeiving  her. 

Oh,  Heaven  !  that  aspect  tells  a  fearful  tale. 

yittoria  (not  observing  her.)  There  is  a  cloud  of 

horror  on  my  soul ; 

And  on  thy  words,  Anselmo,  peace  doth  wait. 
Even  as  an  echo,  following  the  sweet  close 
Of  some  divine  and  solemn  harmony  : 
Therefore  I  sought  thee  now.    Oh  !  speak  to  me 
Of  holy  things  and  names,  in  whose  deep  sound 
Is  power  to  bid  the  tempests  of  the  heart 
Sink,  like  a  storm  rebuked. 

Jinselmo.  What  recent  grief 

Darkens  thy  spirit  thus? 

Vittoria.  I  said  not  grief. 

We  should  rejoice  to-day,  but  joy  is  not 
That  which  it  hath  been.    In  the  flowers  whick 

wreathe 

Its  mantling  cup,  there  is  a  scent  unknown. 
Fraught  with  strange  delirium.    All  things  now 
Have  changed  their  nature:  still,  I  say  rejoice  ! 
There  is  a  cause,  Anselmo !— We  are  free. 
Free  and  avenged  !— Yet  on  my  soul  there  hang* 
A  darkness,  heavy  as  th'  oppressive  gloom 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


139 


Of  midnight  phantasies.— Ay,  for  this,  too. 
There  is  a  cause. 

Anselmo.  How say'st  thon,  we  are  free? 

There  may  have  raged,  within  Palermo's  walls, 
Some  brief  wild  tumult,  but  too  well  1  know 
They  call  the  stranger  lord. 

Vittoria.  Who  calls  the  dead 

Conqueror  or  lord  ? — Hush !  breathe  it  not  aloud. 
The  wild  winds  must  not  hear  it  1— Yet,  again, 
I  tell  thee,  we  are  free  I 

Anselmo.  Thine  eye  hath  look'd 

On  fearful  deeds,  for  still  their  shadows  hang 
O'er  its  dark  orb. — Speak!  I  adjuro  thee,  say, 
How  hath  this  work  been  wrought? 

ViUoria.  Peace !  ask  me  not  i 

Why  shouldst  thou  hear  a  tale  to  send  thy  blood 
Back  on  its  fount? — We  cannot  wake  them  now  ! 
The  storm  is  in  my  soul,  but  they  are  all 
At  rest !— Ay,  sweetly  may  the  slangbter'd  I-  .oe 
By  its  dead  mother  sleep;  and  warlike  men 
Who  'midst  the  slain  have  slumber'd  oft  before, 
Making  the  shield  their  pillow,  may  repose 
Well,  now  their  toils  are  done. — Is't  not  enough? 
Constance.    Merciful  Heaven'  have  such  things 

been  ?    And  yet 

There  is  no  shade  come  o'er  the  laughing  sky! 
— I  am  an  outcast  now. 

Anselmo.  O  thou,  whose  w,ys 

Clouds  mantle  fearfully;  of  all  the  blind. 
But  terrible  ministers  that  work  thy  wrath, 
How  much  is  man  the  fiercest! — Others  know 
Their    limits  —  Yesl    the   earthquakes,   and   the 

storms, 

And  the  volcanoes!— He  alone  o'erleaps 
The  hounds  of  retribution  !— Couldst  thou  gaze, 
Vittoria  !  with  thy  woman's  heart  and  eye, 
On  such  dread  scenes  unmoved  ? 

Vittoria.  Was  it  for  me 

To  stay  th'  avenging  sword  ? — No,  though  it  pierced 
My  very  soul !— Hark  !  hark  !  what  thrilling  shrieks 
Ring  through  the  air  around  me!— Canst  thou  not 
Bid  them  be  husli'd  ? — Oh  !  look  not  on  me  thus' 
Jtnsclmo.    Lady !  thy  thoughts  lend  sternness  to 

the  looks 

Which  are  but  sad! — Have  all  then  perish'd?  all? 
Was  there  no  mercy  I 

Vittoria.  Mercy  !  it  bath  been 

A  word  forbidden  as  th'  unhallow'd  names 
Of  evil  powers. — Yet  one  there  was  who  dared 
To  own  the  guilt  of  pity,  and  to  aid 
The  victims!  but  in  vain. — Of  him  no  morel 
He  is  a  traitor,  and  a  traitor's  death 
Will  be  his  meed. 
Constance  (coming  forward.)    Oh,  Heaven ! — his 

name,  his  name ! 
Is  it — it  cannot  be! 

Vittoria  (starting.)     Thou  here,  pale  girl ! 
I  decm'd  thee  with  the  dead!— How  hast  thou 

'scaped 

The  snare !— Who  saved  thee,  tast  of  all  thy  race  ! 
Was  it  not  he  of  whom  I  spakr  e'en  now, 
Raimond  di  Procida? 

Constance.  It  is  enough. 

Now  the  storm  breaks  upon  me,  and  I  sink. 
Must  he  too  die? 

Vittoria.  Is  it  e'en  so  ? — Why  then. 

Live  on— thou  hast  the  arrow  at  thy  heart' 
"  Fix  not  on  me  thy  sad  reproachful  eyes," 
I  mean  not  to  betray  thee.    Thou  may'st  live ! 
Why  should  death  bring  thee  his  oblivious  balms! 
He  visits  but  the  happy.— Didst  thou  ask 
If  Raimond  too  must  die  ? — It  is  as  sure 
As  that  his  blood  is  on  thy  head,  for  thou 
Didst  win  him  to  this  treason. 

Constance.  When  did  men 

Call  mercy,  treason? — Take  my  life,  but  save 
My  noble  Raimond  1 

Vittoria.  Maiden  I  he  must  die. 

E'en  now  the  youth  before  his  judges  stands. 
And  they  are  men,  who,  to  the  voice  of  prayer, 
Are  as  the  rock  is  to  the  murmur'd  sigh 
Of  summer-waves  !  ay,  though  a  father  sit 
On  their  tribunal.    Bend  thou  not  to  me. 
What  wouldst  thou  ? 
Constance         Mercy  ! — Oh  !  wert  thou  to  plead 


But  with  a  look,  e'en  yet  he  might  be  saved! 

If  thou  hast  ever  loved 

Vittoria.  If  I  have  loved  ? 

It  is  t/iat  love  forbids  me  to  relent; 
I  am  what  it  hath  made  me. — O'er  my  soul 
Lightning  hath  pass'd,  and  sear'd  it.  Could  I  weep, 
I  then  might  pity — but  it  will  not  be. 
Constance.    Oh !  thou   wilt  yet  relent,  for  wo- 

man's  heart 
Was  form'd  to  suffer  and  to  melt. 

Vittoria.  Away ! 

Why  should  I  pity  thee  ? — Thou  wilt  but  provo 
What  I  have  known  before— and  yet  I  live! 
Nature  is  strong,  and  it  may  all  be  borne— 
The  sick  impatient  yearning  of  the  heart 
For  that  which  is  not :  and  the  weary  sense 
Of  the  dull  void,  wherewith  our  homes  have  Leer 
Circled  by  death;  yes,  all  things  may  be  borne! 
All,  save  remorse.— But  I  will  not  bow  down 
My  spirit  to  that  dark  power : — there  was  no  guilt 
Anselmo!  wherefore  didst  thou  talk  of  guilt? 

Ansel  mo.    Ay,    thus  doth  sensitive  conscience 

quicken  thought, 

Lending  reproachful  voices  to  a  breeze, 
Keen  lightning  to  a  look. 

Vittoria.  Leave  me  in  peace  ! 

Is't  not  enough  that  I  should  have  a  sense 
Of  things  thou  canst  not  see,  all  wild  and  dark, 
And  of  unearthly  whispers,  haunting  me 
With  dread  suggestions,  but  that  thy  cold  words. 
Old  man,  should  gall  me,  too? — Must  all  conspire 
Against  me?— Oh!  thou  beautiful  spirit !  wont 
To  shine  upon  my  dreams  with  looks  of  love, 
Where  art  thou  vanish'd  ?— Was  it  not  the  thought 
Of  thee  which  urged  me  to  the  fearful  task, 
And  wilt  thou  now  forsake  me?— I  must  seek 
The  shadowy  woods  again,  for  there,  perchance, 
Still  may  thy  voice  be  in  my  twilight-paths  ; 
— Here  I  but  meet  despair!  ^Eiit  VITTORIA 

Anselmo  (to  Constance.)      Despair  not  thou, 
My  daughter!— he  that  purifies  the  heart 
With  grief,  will  lend  it  strength. 

Constance  (endeavouring  to  rouse  herself.)    Did 

she  not  say 
That  some  one  was  to  die  ? 

Anselmo.  I  tell  thee  not. 

Thy  pangs  are  vain— for  nature  will  have  way. 
Earth  must  have  tears  ;  yet  in  a  heart  like  thine. 
Faith  may  not  yield  its  place. 

Constance.  Have  I  not  heard 

Some  fearful  tale  ?— Who  said,  that  there  should 

rest 

Blood  on  my  soul  ?— What  blood  ?— I  never  bore 
Hatred,  kind  father,  unto  aught  that  breathes; 
Raimond  doth  know  it  well.— Raimond!—  High 

Heaven, 

It  bursts  upon  me  now  .'—arid  he  must  die! 
For  my  sake — e'en  for  mine! 

Anselmo.  Her  words  were  strafpe, 

And  her  proud  mind  seem'd  half  to  frenzy  wrought 
— Perchance  this  may  not  be. 

Constance.  It  must  not  be. 

Why  do  I  linger  here  ?  (She  rises  to  depart. 

Anselmo.  Where  wouldsl  thou  go  ? 

Constance.    To  give  their  stern  and  unrelenting 

hearts 
A  victim  in  his  stead. 

Anselmo.  Stay  !  wouldst  thou  rush 

On  certain  death? 

Constance.  I  may  not  falter  now. 

—Is  not  the  life  of  woman  all  bound  up 
In  her  affections? — What  hath  she  to  do 
In  this  bleak  world  alone?— It  may  be  well 
For  man  on  his  triumphal  course  to  move, 
Uncumber'd  by  soft  bonds;  but  we  were  born 
For  love  and  grief. 

Anselmo.  Thou  fair  and  gentle  thing. 

Unused  to  meet  a  glance  which  doth  not  spoak 
Of  tenderness  or  homage!  how  shouldst  thou 
Bear  the  hard  aspect  of  unpitying  men, 
Or  face  the  king  of  terrors? 

Constance.  There  is  strength 

Deep  bedded  in  our  hearts,  of  which  we  reck 
But  little,  till  the  shafts  of  heaven  have  pierced 
Its  fragile  dwelling.— Must  not  earth  be  rent 


140 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Before  her  gems  are  found  ?— Oh!  now  I  feel 
Worthy  the  generous  love  which  hath  notshunn'd 
To  look  on  death  for  me!— My  heart  hath  giveu 
Birth  to  as  deep  a  courage,  and  a  faith 
As  high  in  its  devotion.  [Exit  CONSTANCE. 

Jlnselmo.  She  is  gone ! 

Is  it  to  perish?— God  of  mercy!  lend 
Power  to  my  voice,  that  so  its  prayer  may  save 
This  pure  and  lofty  creature !— I  will  follow- 
But  her  young  footstep  and  heroic  heart 
Will  bear  her  to  destruction  faster  far 
Than  1  can  track  her  path.  [£xi(  ANSEUCO. 


SCENE  III.— Hall  of  a  Public  Building. 

PROCIDA,  MONTALBA,  GUIDO,  and  others,  seated  a* 
on  a  Tribunal. 

Procida.    The  morn  lower'd  darkly,  but  the  sun 

hath  now 

With  fierce  and  angry  splendour,  through  the  cloud* 
Burst  forth,  as  if  impatient  to  behold 
This,  our  high  triumph. — Lead  the  prisoner  in. 

(RAIMOND  is  brought  in,  fettered  and  guarded.) 
Why,  what  a  bright  and  fearless  brow  is  here  ! 
—Is  this  man  guilty  ?— Look  on  him,  Mnntalba  ! 

Montalba.    Be  firm.   Should  justice  falter  at  t 
look  1 

Procida.    No,  thou  say'st  well.    Her  eyes  art 

filleted. 

Or  should  be  so.  Thou,  that  dost  call  thyself — 
— But  no!  I  will  not  breathe  a  traitor's  name- 
Speak  !  thou  art  arraign'd  of  treason. 

Raimond.  I  arraign 

You,  before  whom  I  stand,  of  darker  guilt, 
In  the  bright  face  of  Heaven  ;  and  your  own  hearts 
Give  echo  to  the  charge.     Your  very  looks 
Have  ta'en  the  stamp  of  crime,  and  seem  to  shrink, 
With  a  perturb'd  and  haggard  wildness,  back 
Vrom  the  ton-searching  light.— Why,  what  bath 

wrought 

This  change  on  noble  brows  ? — There  is  a  voice 
With  a  deep  answer,  rising  from  the  blood 
Your  bands  have  coldly  shed!— Ye  are  of  those 
Prom  whom  just  men  recoil,  with  curdling  veins, 
All  thrill'd  by  life's  abhorrent  consciousness. 
And  sensitive  feeling  of  a  murderer's  presence. 
—Away!  come  down  from  your  tribunal-seat, 
Put  off  your  robes  of  state,  and  let  your  mien 
Be  pale  and  humbled  ;  for  ye  bear  about  you 
That  which  repugnant  earth  doth  sicken  at, 
More  than  the  pestilence.— That  I  should  live 
To  see  my  father  shrink ! 

Procida.  Montalba,  speak! 

There's  something  chokes  my  voice — but  fear  me 
not. 

Montalba.  If  we  must  plead  to  vindicate  our  acts. 
Be  it  when  thou  hast  made  thine  own  look  clear; 
Most  eloquent  youth!  What  answer  canst  thou 

make 
To  this  our  charge  of  treason  ? 

Raimond.  I  will  plead 

T/tat  cause  before  a  mightier  judgment-throne, 
Where  mercy  is  not  guilt.     But  here,  I  feel 
Too  buoyantly  the  glory  and  the  joy 
Of  my  free  spirit's  whiteness  ;  for  e'en  now 
Th'  embodied  hideousness  of  crime  doth  seem 
Before  ine  glaring  out. — Why,  I  saw  thee, 
Thy  foot  upon  an  aged  warrior's  breast. 
Trampling  out  nature's  last  convulsive  hoavings. 
— And  thou — thy  sword — Oh,  valiant  chief! — is  yet 
Red  from  the  noble  stroke  which  pierced,  at  once, 
A  mother  and  the  babe,  whose  little  life 
Waft  from  her  bosom  drawn  1— Immortal  deeds 
For  bards  to  hymn! 

Outdo  (aside.)  I  look  upon  his  mien, 
And  waver.— Can  it  be?— My  boyish  heart 
Deem'd  him  so  noble  once  1  —  Away,  weak 

thoughts ! 

Why  should  I  shrink,  as  if  the  guilt  were  mine, 
From  his  proud  glance  ? 

Procida.  Oh,  thou  dissembler!  thou 

So  skill'd  to  clothe  with  virtue's  generous  flush 
The  hollow  cheek  of  cold  hypocrisy, 


That,  with  thy  sruilt  made  manifest,  I  can  scarce 
Believe  thee  guilty  ! — look  on  me.  ami  say 
Whose  was  the  secret  warning  voice,  that  saved 
De  Couci  with  his  bands,  to  join  our  foes, 
And  forge  new  fetters  for  th'  indignant  land  ? 
Whose  was  this  treachery  ?       (S/ioics  him  papers.) 
Who  hath  promised  here 
(Belike  to  appease  the  manes  of  the  dead.) 
At  midnight  to  unfold  Palermo's  gates. 
And  welcome  in  the  foe  ? — Who  hath  done  this, 
But  thou,  a  tyrant's  friend  7 

Raimond.  Who  hath  done  this  ? 

Father ! — if  I  may  call  thee  by  that  name- 
Look,  with  thy  piercing  eye,  on  those  whose  smiles 
Were  masks  that  hid  their  daggers. —  There,  per- 
chance. 

May  lurk  what  loves  not  light  too  strong.  For  me, 
I  know  but  this— there  needs  no  deep  research 
To  prove  the  truth — that  murderers  may  be  traitors 
Ev'n  to  each  other. 

Procida  (to  Montalba.)    His  unaltering  cheek 
Still  vividly  doth  hold  its  natural  hue, 
And  his  eye  quails  not ! — Is  this  innocence  ? 

Montalba.    No!  'tis  th' unshrinking  hardihood 

of  crime. 

—Thou  bear'st  a  gallant  mien  ! — But  where  is  she 
Whom  thou  hast  barter'd  fame  and  life  to  save, 
The  fair  Provencal  maid  ?— What !  know'st  thou 

not 

That  this  alone  were  guilt,  to  death  allied? 
Was't  not  our  law  that  he  who  spared  a  foe, 
(And  is  she  not  of  that  detested  race  ?) 
should  thenceforth  be  amongst  us  as  a  foe  ? 
-Where  hast  thou  borne  her?— speak  ! 

Raimond.  That  Heaven,  whose  eye 

Burns  up  thy  soul  with  its  far-searching  glance, 
Is  with  her:  she  is  safe. 

Procida.  And  by  that  word 

Thy  doom  is  seal'd.— Oh  God !  that  I  had  died 
Before  this  bitter  hour,  in  the  full  strength 
And  glory  of  my  heart! 

CONSTANCE  enters,  and  rushes  to  RAIMOND. 

Constance.  Oh !  art  thou  found  ? 

—But  yet,  to  find  thee  thus !— Chains,  chains  for 

thee  ! 

My  brave,  my  noble  love !— OfT  with  these  bonds; 
Let  him  be  free  as  air: — for  I  am  come 
To  be  your  victim  now. 

Raimond.  Death  has  no  pang 

More  keen  than  this. — Oh !   wherefore  art  thou 

here? 

I  could  have  died  so  calmly,  deeming  thee 
Saved,  and  at  peace. 

Constance.      At  peace! — And  thou  hast  thought 
Thus  poorly  of  my  love  !— But  woman's  breast 
Hath  strength  to  suffer  too. — Thy  father  sits 
On  this  tribunal;  Raimond,  which  is  he  ? 

Raimond.  My  father !  who  hath  lull'd  thy  gentle 

heart 

With  that  false  hope  ?— Beloved  !  gaze  around — 
See,  if  thine  eye  can  trace  a  father's  soul 
In  the  dark  looks  bent  on  us. 

Constance  (after  earnestly  examining  the  counte- 
nances of  thejudgesJ'aUs  at  the  feet  of  Procida.) 

Thou  art  he! 

Nay,  turn  thou  not  away !  for  I  beheld 
Thy  proud  lip  quiver,  and  a  watery  mist 
Pass  o'er  thy  troubled  eye ;  and  then  I  knew 
Thou  wert  his  father!— Spare  hiir     take  my  life  1 
In  truth  a  worthless  sacrifice  for  his. 
But  yet  mine  all.— Oh  !  he  hath  still  to  run 
A  long  bright  race  of  glory. 

Raimond'.  Constance,  peace ! 

I  look  upon  thee,  and  my  failing  heart 
Is  as  a  broken  reed. 

Constance  (still  addressing   Procida.)    Oh,    yeC 

relent . 

If  'twas  his  crime  to  rescue  m«.  behold 
I  come  to  be  the  atonement  1    Let  him  live 
To  crown  thine  age  with  honour.  —In  thy  heart 
There's  a  deep  conflict ;  but  great  Nature  pleads 
With  an  o'ermastering  voice,  and  thou  wilt  yield! 
—Thou  art  his  futher! 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


141 


Prof-ilia  (after  a  pause.}  Maiden,  thou'rt  deceived! 
I  am  as  calm  as  that  dead  pause  of  nature 
Ere  the  full  thunder  bursts. — A  judge  is  not 
Father  or  friend.    Who  calls  this  man  my  son  ? 
— My  son  ! — Ay !  thus  his  mother  proudly  smiled — 
But  she  was  noble ! — Traitors  «tand  alone, 
Loosed  from  all  ties.— Why  should  I  trifle  thus? 
— Bear  her  away! 

Raimand  (starting  forward.)    And  whither? 

Montalba.  Unto  death. 

Why  should   she   live  when   all   her  race    have 
perish'd  ? 

Constance  (sinking  into  the  arms  of  Raimond.) 
Raimond,  farewell !— Oh!  when  thy  star  hath  risen 
To  its  bright  noon,  f.irget  not,  best  beloved, 
I  died  for  thee  ! 

Raimond.  High  Heaven  !  thou  seest  these  things, 
And  yet  endur'st  them! — Shalt  thou  die  for  me, 
Purest  and  loveliest  being?— but  our  fate 
May  not  divide  us  long. — Her  cheek  is  cold — 
Herdoppblue  eyes  are  closed— Should  this  be  death! 
— If  thus,  there  yet  were  mercy  ! — Father,  father  I 
Is  thy  heart  human  ? 

Procida.  Bear  her  hence,  I  say  ! 

Why  must  my  soul  be  torn  ? 

ANSELMO  enters,  holding  a  Crucifix. 

Jinsclmo.  Now,  by  this  sign 

Of  Heaven's  prevailing  love,  ye  shall  not  harm 
One  ringlet  of  her  head. — How!  is  there  not 
Enough  of  blood  upon  your  burthen'd  souls? 
Will  not  the  visions  of  your  midnight  couch 
Be  wild  and  dark  enough,  but  ye  must  heap 
Crime  upon  crime  ? — Be  ye  content :  your  dreams. 
Your  councils,  and  your  banquetings,  will  yet 
Be  haunted  by  the  voice  which  doth  not  sleep. 
E'en    though   this  maid   be  spared! — Constance, 

look  up! 
Thou  shalt  not  die. 

Raimond.  Oh !  death  e'en  now  hath  veil'd 

The  light  of  her  soft  beauty.— Wake,  my  love  I 
Wake  at  my  voice  1 

Procida.  '  Anselmo,  lead  her  hence, 

And  let  her  live,  but  never  meet  my  sight. 
— Begone! — my  heart  will  burst. 

Raimond.  One  last  embrace  ! 

— Again  life's  rose  is  opening  on  her  cheek  ; 
Yet  must  we  part. — So  love  is  crush'd  on  earth! 
But  there  are  brighter  worlds!— Farewell,  farewell! 
(He  gives  her  to  the  cart  of  ANSELMO.) 

Constance  (slowly  recovering.)  There  was  a  voice 

which  call'd  me. — Am  I  not 
A  spirit  freed  from  earth? — Have  I  not  pass'd 
The  bitterness  of  death  ? 

jtnseliiio.  Oh,  haste  away! 

Constance.    Yes !  Raimond  calls  me. — He  too  it 

released 

From  his  cold  bondage. — We  are  free  at  last, 
And  all  is  well. — Away! 

(She  is  led  out  by  ANSELMO. 

Raimond.  The  pang  is  o'er, 

Anil  I  have  but  to  die. 

Montalba.  Now,  Procida, 

Comes  thy  great  task.  Wake!  summon  to  thine  aid 
All  thy  deep  soul's  commanding  energies; 
For  thou — a  chief  among  us — must  pronounce 
The  sentence  of  thy  son.    It  rests  with  thee. 

Procida.    Ha  I  ha  ! — Men's  hearts  should  be  of 

softer  mould 

Than  in  the  elder  time. — Fathers  could  doom 
Their  children  then  with  an  unfaltering  voice, 
And  we  must  tremble  thus ! — Is  it  not  said 
That  nature  grows  degenerate,  earth  being  now 
So  full  of  days  ? 

Montalba.          Rouse  up  thy  mighty  heart. 

Procida.    Ay.  thou  say'st  right.    There  yet  are 

souls  which  tower 

As  landmarks  to  mankind.— Well,  what's  the  task? 
— There  is  a  man  to  be  condemn'd,  you  say  ? 
Is  he  then  guilty? 

All.  Thus  we  deem  of  him 

With  one  accord. 

Procida.  And  hath  he  naught  to  plead  ? 

Raimond.    Naught  but  a  soul  unstain'd. 

Procida  VVIiv  that  U  little 


Stains  on  the  soul  are  but  as  conscience  deema 

them. 
And  conscience — may  be  sear'd. — But,  for  this 

sentence  ! 

— Was't  not  the  penalty  imposed  on  man. 
E'en  from  creation's  dawn,  that  he  must  die  ? 
— It  was :  thus  making  guilt  a  sacrifice 
Unto  eternal  justice;  and  we  but 
Obey  Heaven's  mandate,  when  we  cast  dark  souls 
To  th'  elements  from  among  us. — Be  it  so ! 
Such  be  his  doom ! — I  have  said.    Ay,  now  my 

heart 

Is  girt  with  adamant,  whose  cold  weight  doth  press 
Its  gaspingsdown. — Off!  let  me  breathe  in  freedom! 
— Mountains  are  on  my  breast !  (He  sinks  back.) 

Montalba.  Guards,  bear  the  prisoner 

Back  to  his  dungeon. 

Haimond.  Father!  oh,  look  up; 

Thou  art  my  father  still ! 

Ouido  (leaving  the  tribunal,  throws  himself  on  the 
neck  of  Raimond^)    Oh  !  Raimond,  Raimond  I 
If  it  should  be  that  I  have  wrong'd  thee,  say 
Thou  dost  forgive  me. 

Haimond.  Friend  of  my  young  days. 

So  may  all-pitying  Heaven  !     (Raimond  is  led  out.) 

Procida.  Whose  voice  was  that  ? 

Where  is  he ?— gone  ?— now  I  may  breathe  once 

more 
In  the  free  air  of  heaven.    Let  us  away. 

f  Exeunt  omnet. 


ACT  THE  FIFTH. 
SCENE  I.— A  Prison,  dimly  lighted. 
RAIMOND  sleeping.    PROCIDA.  enters. 

Procida  (gazing  upon  him  earnestly.)  Can  he 
then  sleep  ?— Th'  o'ershadowing  night  hath 
wrapt 

Earth,  at  her  stated  hours — the  stars  have  set 
Their  burning  watch;  and  all  things  hold  their 

course 

Of  wakefulness  and  rest ;  yet  hath  not  sleep 
Sat  on  mine  eyelids  since — but  this  avails  not! 
— And  thus  he  slumbers  ! — "  Why,  this  mien  doth 

seem 

As  if  its  soul  were  but  one  lofty  thought 
Of  an  immortal  destiny  !" — his  brow 
Is  calm  as  waves  whereon  the  midnight  heavens 
Are  imaged  silently.— Wake,  Raimond,  wake  I 
Thy  rest  is  deep. 

Raimond  (starting  up.)    My  father !— Wherefore 

here  ? 

I  am  prepared  to  die,  yet  would  I  not 
Fall  by  thy  hand. 

Procida.  'T  was  not  for  this  I  came. 

Raimond.  Then  wherefore  ?— and  upon  thy  lofty 

brow 
Why  burns  the  troubled  flush? 

Procida.  Perchance  't  is  shame. 

Yes,  it  may  well  be  shame  !— for  I  have  striven 
With  nature's  feebleness,  and  been  o'erpower'd. 
— Howe'er  it  be,  'tis  not  for  thee  to  gaze. 
Noting  it  thus.    Rise,  let  me  loose  thy  chains. 
Arise,  and  follow  me;  but  let  thy  step 
Fall  without  sound  on  earth:  I  have  prepared 
The  means  for  thy  escape. 

Raimond.  What !  thou  1  the  austere. 

The  inflexible  Procida!  hast  thou  done  this, 
Deeming  me  guilty  still ! 

Procida.  Upbraid  me  not ! 

It  is  even  so.    There  have  been  nobler  deeds 
By  Roman  fathers  done,— but  I  am  weak. 
Therefore,  again  I  say.  arise!  and  haste, 
For  the  night  wanes.    Thy  fugitive  course  mast  bt 
To  realms  beyond  the  deep ;  so  let  us  part 
In  silence,  and  for  ever. 

Raimond.  Let  him  fly 

Who  holds  no  deep  asylum  in  his  breast. 
Wherein  to  shelter  from  the  scoffs  of  men! 
— I  can  sleep  calmly  here. 

Procida  Art  thou  in  love 


142 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  death  and  infamy,  that  so  thy  choice 

Is  made,  lost  hoy!  when  freedom  courts  thy  grasp? 

Raimond.  Father!  to  set  th' irrevocable  seal 
Upon  that  shame  wherewith  ye  have  branded  me, 
There  needs  but  flight. — What  should  I  bear  from 

this, 

My  native  land  ? — A  blighted  name,  to  rise 
And  part  me,  with  its  dark  remembrances, 
For  ever  from  the  sunshine  ! — O'er  rny  soul 
Bright  shadowings  of  a  nobler  destiny 
Float  in  dim  beauty  through  the  gloom  ;  but  here, 
On  earth,  my  hopes  are  closed. 

Procida.  Thy  hopes  are  closed  ! 

And  what  were  they  to  mine  ?— Thou  wilt  not  fly  I 
Why,  let  all  traitors  flock  to  thee,  and  learn 
How  proudly  guilt  can  talk  !— Let  fathers  rear 
Their  offspring  henceforth,  as  the  free  wild  birds 
Foster  their  young;  when  these  can  mount  alone, 
Dissolving  nature's  bonds— why  should  it  not 
Be  so  with  us? 

Raimond.        Oh,  father !— Now  I  feel 
What  high  prerogatives  belong  to  death. 
He  hath  a  deep  though  voiceless  eloquence, 
To  which  I  leave  my  cause.     "  His  solemn  veil 
Doth  with  mysterious  beauty  clothe  our  virtues, 
And  in  its  vast  oblivious  folds,  for  ever 
Give  shelter  to  our  faults."— When  I  am  gone, 
The  mists  of  passion  which  have  dimm'd  my  name 
Will  melt  like  day-dreams;  and  my  memory  then 
Will  be — not  what  it  should  have  been— for  I 
Must  pass  without  my  fame — but  yet,  unstain'd 
As  a  clear  morning  dew-drop.    Oh  !  the  grave 
Hath  rights  inviolate  as  a  sanctuary's, 
And  they  should  be  my  own  ! 

Procida.  Now,  by  just  Heaven, 

I  will  not  thus  be  tortured  !— Were  my  heart 
But  of  thy  guilt  or  innocence  assured, 
I  could  be  calm  again.    "  But,  in  this  wild 
Suspense — this  conflict  and  vicissitude 
Of  opposite  feelings  and  convictions — What! 
Hath  it  been  mine  to  temper  and  to  bend 
All  spirits  to  my  purpose  ;  have  I  raised 
With  a  severe  and  passinnlpss  energy. 
t  roin  the  dread  mingling  of  their  elements, 
Storms  which  haverock'd  the  earth?— And  shall  I 

now 

Thus  fluctuate,  as  a  feeble  reed,  the  scorn 
And  plaything  of  the  winds?"— Look  on  me,  boy  1 
G  lilt  neverdared  to  meet  these  eyes,  and  keep 
Its  heart's  dark  secret  close.— Oh,  pitying  Heaven, 
Speak  to  my  soul  with  some  dread  oracle, 
And  tell  me  which  is  truth. 

Raimond.  I  will  not  plead. 

I  will  not  call  th'  Omnipotent  to  attest 
My  innocence.    No,  father,  in  thy  h^art 
1  know  my  birthright  shall  be  soon  restored; 
Therefore  I  look  to  death,  and  bid  thee  speed 
The  great  absolver. 

Procida.  Oh  !  my  son,  my  son  ! 

We  will  not  part  in  wrath  !— The  sternest  hearts. 
Within  their  proud  and  guarded  fastnesses, 
Hide  something  still,  round  which  their  tendrils 

cling 

With  a  close  grasp,  unknown  to  those  who  druss 
Their  love  in  smiles.    And  such  wert  thou  to  me ! 
The  all  which  taught  me  that  my  soul  was  cast 
In  nature's  mould. —  And  I  must  now  hold  on 
My  desolate  course  alone ! — Why,  be  it  thus! 
He  that  doth  guide  a  nation's  star,  should  dwell 
High  o'er  the  clouds  in  regal  solitude, 
Sufficient  to  himself. 

Raimond.  Yet,  on  the  summit, 

When  with  her  bright  wings  glory  shadows  thee, 
Forget  not  him  who  coldly  sleeps  beneath, 
Yet  might  have  soar'd  as  high  ! 

Procida.  No,  fear  thou  not! 

Thou 'It  be  remember'd  long.    The  canker-worm 
O'  th'  heart  is  ne'er  forgotten. 

Raimond.  "  Oh  1  not  thus— 

I  would  not  thus  be  thought  of." 

Proeida.  Let  me  deem 

Again  that  thou  art  base !— for  thy  bright  looks, 
Thy  glorious  mien  of  fearlessness  and  truth. 
Then  would  not  haunt  me  as  th'  avenging  power* 
Follow'd  the  parricide.--Farewell,  farewell ! 
I  have  no  tears.— Oh '  thus  thy  mother  look'd, 


When,  with  a  sad,  yet  half-triumphant  smile. 
All  radiant  with  deep  meaning,  from  her  death-bet 
She  gave  thee  to  my  arms. 

Raimond.  Now  death  has  lost 

His  sting,  since  thou  believ'st  me  innocent. 

Procida  (wildly .)     Thou   innocent!  —  Am  I  thy 

murderer,  then  ? 

Away  I  I  tell  thee  thou  hast  made  my  name 
A  scorn  to  men  I — No !  I  will  not  forgive  thee ; 
A  traitor !— What !  the  blood  of  Procida 
Filling  a  traitor's  veins? — Let  the  earth  drink  it; 
T/uru  wouldst  receive  our   foes!— but  they  shall 

meet 

From  thy  perfidious  lips  a  welcome,  cold 
As  death  can  make  it. — Go,  prepare  thy  soul ! 

Raimond.    Father  !  yet  hear  me  ! 

Procida.  No!  thou'rt  skill'd  to  make 

E'en  shame  look  fair.— Why  should  I  linger  thus  ? 

(Going  to  leave  the  prison,  ht  turns  back  for  a 

moment.) 

Tf  there  be  aught — if  aught— for  which  thou  need'st 
Forgiveness — not  of  me,  but  that  dread  power 
From  whom  no  heart  is  veil'd— delay  thou  not 
Thy  prayer.— Time  hurries  on. 

Raimond.  I  am  prepared. 

Procida.    T  is  well.  (Exit.  PROCIDA. 

Raimond.  Men  talk  of  torture! — Can  they  wreak 
Upon  the  sensitive  and  shrinking  frame. 
Half  the  mind  bears  and  lives  ? — My  spirit  feels 
Bewilder'd;  on  its  powers  this  twilight  gloom 
Hangs  like  a  weight  of  earth. — It  should  be  morn, 
Why,  then,  perchance,  a  beam  of  Heaven's  bright 

sun 

Hath  pierced,  ere  now,  the  grating  of  my  dungeon, 
Telling  of  hope  and  mercy ! 

[JEitt  into  an  inner  cell. 


SCENE  II.— A  street  of  Palermo. 
Many  CITIZENS  assembled. 

First  Citizen.    The  morning  breaks;  his  time  ii 

almost  come : 
Will  he  he  led  this  way? 

Second  Citizen.  Ay,  so  'tis  said, 

To  die  before  that  gate  through  which  he  purposed 
The  foe  should  enter  in. 

Third  Citizen.  'T  was  a  vile  plot ! 

And  yet  I  would  my  hands  were  pure  as  his 
From  the  deep  stain  of  blood.  Didst  hear  the  sounds 
I'  th'  air  last  night? 

•Second  Citizen.  Since  the  great  work  of  slaughter, 
Who  hath  not  heard  them  duly  at  those  hours 
Which  should  be  silent? 

Third  Citizen.  Oh!  the  fearful  mingling, 

The  terrible  mimicry  of  human  voices, 
In  every  sound  which  to  the  heart  doth  speak 
Of  woe  and  death. 

Second  Citizen.        Ay,  there  was  woman's  shrill 
And  piercing  cry;  and  the  low  feeble  wail 
Of  dying  infants;  and  the  half-supprcss'd 
Deep  groan  of  man  in  his  last  agonies! 
And  now  and  then  there  swell'd  upon  the  breeze 
Strange,  savage  bursts  of  laughter,  wilder  far 
Than  all  the  rest. 

First.  Citizen.    Of  our  own  fate,  perchance, 
These  awful  midnight  wailings  may  be  deem'd 
An  ominous  prophecy.— Should  France  regain 
Her  power  among  us,  doubt  not,  we  shall  have 
Stern  reckoners  to  account  with.— Hark  1 

(The  sound  of  trumpets  heard  at  a  distance.) 

Second  Citizen.  %T  was  bul 

A  rushing  of  the  breeze. 

Third  Citizen.  E'en  now,  'tis  said. 

The  hostile  bands  approach. 

(The  sound  is  heard  gradually  drawing  nearer.! 

Second  Citizen.  Again  !  that  sound 

Was  no  illusion.    Nearer  yet  it  swells— 
They  rome,  they  come ! 

PROCIDA  enters. 

Procida.    The  foe  is  at  your  gate* ; 
But  hearts  and  hands  prepared  shall  meet  his  onset 
Whv  are  ye  loitering  here  ? 

Citizens.  My  lord,  we  came 

Procida.    Think  ye  I  know  not  wherefore?-' 
'twas  to  see 


HEMANS*  POETICAL  WORKS. 


143 


A  fellow-being  die  I — Ay,  'tis  a  sight 

Man  loves  to  look  on,  and  the  tenderest  hearts 

Recoil,  and  yet  withdraw  not  from  the  scene. 

For  this  ye  came.— What !  is  our  nature  fierce, 

Or  is  there  that  in  mortal  agony, 

From  which  the  soul,  exulting  in  its  strength, 

Doth  learn  immortal  lessons  ?— Hence,  and  arm! 

Ere  the  niclit  dews  descend,  ye  will  have  seen 

Enough  of  death  ;  for  this  must  be  a  day 

Of  battle  ! — 'Tis  the  hour  which  troubled  souls 

Delight  in,  for  its  rushing  storms  are  wings 

Which  bear  them  up!— Arm,  arm !  'tis  for  your 

homes, 
And  all  that  lends  them  loveliness — Away! 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.— Prison  of  RAIMOND. 

RAIMOND,  ANSELMO. 
Raimond.  And  Constance  then  is  safe! — Heaven 

bless  thee,  father!  • 

Good  angels  bear  such  comfort. 

Jlnselmo.  I  have  found 

A  safe  asylum  for  thine  honoured  love, 
Where  she  may  dwell  until  serener  days, 
With  Saint  Rosalia's  gentlest  daughters;  those 
Whose  hallow'd  office  is  to  tend  the  bed 
Of  pain  and  death,  and  soothe  the  parting  soul 
With  their  soft  hymns:   and  therefore  are  they 

eall'd 
"  Sisters  of  Mercy." 

Raimond.  Oh  !  that  name,  my  Constance, 

Befits  thee  well !     E'en  in  our  happiest  days, 
There  was  a  depth  of  tender  pensiveness, 
Far  in  thine  eyes'  dark  azure,  speaking  ever 
Of  pity  and  mild  grief. — Is  she  at  peace  .' 
Jlnselmo.    Alas !  what  should  I  say  ? 
Raimond.  Why  did  I  ask  * 

K'lowing  the  deep  and  full  devotedness 
Of  hT  young  heart's  affections?—  Oh  !  the  thought 
Of  my  untimely  fate  will  haunt  her  dreams, 
Which  should  have  been  so  tranquil! — And  her 

soul. 

Whose  strength  was  but  the  lofty  gift  of  love, 
Even  unto  death  will  sicken. 

Jlnselmo.  All  that  faith 

Can  yield  of  comfort,  shall  assuage  her  woes ; 
And  still,  whate'er  betide,  the  light  of  Heaven 
Rests  on  her  gentle  heart.     But  thou,  my  son  I 
Is  'hy  young  spirit  master'd  and  prepared 
For  nature's  fearf.il  and  mysterious  change? 
Raimond.     Ay,  father!    of  my  brief  remaining 

task 

The  least  part  is  to  die  !— And  yet  the  cup 
Of  life  still  mantled  brightly  to  my  lips, 
t'rown'd  with  thai  sparkling  bubble,  whose  proud 

name 

Is— glory ! — Oh!  my  soul,  from  boyhood's  morn, 
Hath  nursed  such  mighty  dreams '.—  It  was  my  hope 
To  leave  a  name,  whose  echo,  from  the  abyss 
Of  time  should  rise,  and  float  upon  the  winds, 
Into  the  far  hereafter ;  there  to  be 
A  trumpet-sound,  a  voice  from  the  deep  tomb, 
Murmuring— Awake !— Arise  !— But  this  is  past ! 
Erewhile,  and  it  had  seem'd  enough  of  shame, 
To  s]ev.\>  forgotten  in  the  dust — but  now 
—Oh  God  !— the  undying  record  of  my  grave 
Will  be— Here  sleeps  a  traitor!— One,  whose  crime 
Was — to  deem  brave  men  might  find  nobler  wea- 
pons 
Than  the  cold  murderer's  dagger ' 

Jlnselmo.  Oh,  my  son. 

Subdue  these   troubled   thoughts!    Thou  wouldst 

not  change 
Thy  lot  for  theirs,  o'er  whose  dark  dreams  will 

hang 
The  avenging  shadows,  which  the  blood-stain'd 

soul 
Doth  conjure  from  the  dead! 

Raiinond.  Thou 'rt  right.     I  would  not. 

Vet  't  is  a  wrarv  task  to  school  the  heart, 
Rr>-  years  or  griefs  have  tamed  its  fiery  spirit 
tnt'i'that  still  an  I  passive  fortitude, 
Which  is  hit  Itarn'd  from  suffering.— Would  the 

tin  ir 
P.i  It  isli  ill  -si'  passionate  throbbings  were  at  hand! 


Jlnselmo.     It  will  not  be  to-day.    Hast  thou  not 

heard — 

— Bftt  no— the  rush,  the  trampling,  and  the  stir 
Of  this  great  city,  arming  in  her  haste, 
Pierce   not   these  dungeon-depths. — The  foe  half 

reach'd 

Our  gates,  and  all  Palermo's  youth,  and  all 
Her  warrior-men,  are  marshall'd,  and  gone  fortn 
In  that  high  hope  which  makes  realities, 
To  the  red  field.    Thy  father  leads  them  on. 

Raimond  (starting  up.)  They  are  gone  forth!  my 

father  leads  them  on  ! 
All,  all  Palermo's  youth ! — No  !  one  is  left, 
Shut  out  from  glory's  race  ! — They  are  gone  forth  i 
— Ay!  now  the  soul  of  battle  is  abroad, 
It  burns  upon  the  air!— The  joyous  winds 
Are  tossing  warrior-plumes,  the  proud  white  foam 
Of  battle's  roaring  billows!— On  my  sight 
The  vision  bursts — it  maddens!  'tis  the  flash, 
The  lightning-shock  of  lances,  and  the  cloud 
Of  rushing  arrows,  and  the  broad  full  blaze 
Of  helmets  in  the  sun!— The  very  steed 
With  his  majestic  rider  glorying  shares 
The  hour's  stern  joy,  and  waves  his  floating  mane 
As  a  triumphant  banner! — Such  things  are 
Even  now— and  I  am  here! 

Jlnselmo  Alas,  be  calm  ! 

To  the  same  grave  ye  press,— thou  that  dost  pine 
Beneath  a  weight  of  chains,  and  they  that  rule 
The  fortunes  of  the  fight. 

Raimond.  Ay  !  Thou  canst  feel 

The  calm  thou  woulds.1  impart,  for  unto  thee 
All  men  alike,  the  warrior  and  the  slave, 
Seem  as  thou  say'st,  but  pilgrims,  pressing  on 
To  the  same  bourne. — Yet  call  it  not  the  same; 
Their  graves  who  fall  in  this  day's  fight,  will  be 
As  altars  to  their  country,  visited 
By  fathers  with  their  children,  bearing  wreathe, 
And  chanting  hymns  in  honour  of  the  dead : 
Will  mine  be  such? 

VtTTORlA.  rushes  in  wildly,  as  if  pursued. 

ntloria.  Anselmo!  art  thou  found? 

Haste,  haste,  or  all  is  lost !  Perchance  thy  voice 
Whereby  they  deem  Heaven    speaks,   thy  lifted 

cross, 

And  prophet  mien,  may  stay  the  fugitives. 
Or  shame  them  back  to  die. 

Jlnselmo.  The  fugitives ! 

What  words  are  these  ?— the  sons  of  Sicily 
Fly  not  before  the  foe  ? 

Vittoria.  That  I  should  say 

It  is  too  true! 

Jlnselmo.         And  thou— thou  Meedest,  lady  !     _ 

Vittoria.    Peace!  heed  not  me,  when  Sicily  is 

I  stood  upon  the  walls,  and  watch'd  our  bands, 
As,  with  their  ancient,  royal  banner  spread, 
Onward  they  march'd.    The  combat  was  begun, 
The  fiery  impulse  given,  and  valiant  men 
Had  seal'd  their  freedom  with  their  blood— when,  lo 
That  false  Alberti  led  his  recreant  vassals 
To  join  th'  invader's  host. 

Raimond.  His  country's  curse 

Rest  on  the  slave  for  ever ! 

rittoria.  Then  distrust 

E'en  of  their  noble  leaders,  and  dismay, 
That  awift  contagion,  on  Palermo's  bands 
Came  like  a  deadly  blight.  They  fled  !— Oh  shame 
E'en  now  they  fly !— Ay,  through  the  city  gates 
They  rush,  as  if  all  Etna's  burning  streams 
Pursued  their  winged  steps! 

Raimond.  Thou  h  ist  not  named 

Their  chief— Di  Procida— He  doth  not  fly  7 

Vittoria.    No  !  like  a  kingly  lion  in  the  toils, 
Darine  the  hunters  yet,  he  proudly  strives  ; 
But  all  in  vain  !  The  few  that  breast  the  storm, 
With  Guido  and  Montalha.  hy  his  side, 
Fi»ht  but  for  graves  upon  the  battle-field. 

Raimond,  And  I  am  here  !  Shall  there  be  powei 

ah  God ! 

In  the  roused  energies  of  fierce  despair 
To  burst  my  heart-and  not  to  rend  my  chains? 


144 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Oh,  for  one  moment  of  the  thunderbolt 
To  set  the  strong  man  free  ! 

Vittoria  (after  gazing  upon  him  earnestly.')  Why, 

'twere  a  deed 

Worthy  the  fame  and  blessing  of  all  time, 
To  loose  thy  bonds,  thou  son  of  Procida! 
Thou  art  no  traitor!— from  thy  kindled  brow 
Looks  out  thy  lofty  soul  '—rise!  go  forth! 
And  rouse  the  noble  heart  of  Sicily  . 
Unto  high  deeds  again.    Anselmo,  haste ; 
Unbind  him  !  Let  my  spirit  still  prevail, 
Ere  I  depart— for  the  strong  hand  of  death 
Is  on  me  now.        (She  sinks  back  against  a  pillar.) 

Anselmo.  Oh  Heaven  !  the  life-hlood  streams 
Fast  from  thy  heart— thy  troubled  eyes  grow  dim 
Who  hath  done  this  ? 

Vittoria.  Before  the  gates  I  stood, 

And  in  the  name  of  him,  the  loved  and  lost. 
With  whom  I  soon  shall  be,  all  vainly  strove 
To  stay  the  shameful  flight.    Then  from  the  foe, 
Fraught  with  mv  summons,  to  his  viewless  home, 
Came  the  fleet  shaft  which  pierced  me. 

Anselmo.  Yet,  oh  yet, 

It  may  not  be  too  late.    Help,  help ! 

Vittoria.  Away  1 

Bright  is  the  hour  which  brings  me  liberty ! 

ATTENDANTS  enter. 

Haste,  be  those  fetters  riven  1 — Unbar  the  gates, 
And  set  the  captive  free  1 

(The  Attendants  seem  to  hesitate.')  Know  ye  not  her 
Who  should  have  worn  your  country's  diadem  ? 
Jittendantt..   Oh,  lady,  we  obey. 

(They  take  off  RAIMOND'S  chains.    He  springs  «j>, 
exultingly.) 

Raimond.  Is  this  no  dream  7 

—Mount,  eaglet  thou  art  free!— Shall  I  then  die, 
Not  'midst  the  mockery  of  insulting  crowds, 
But  on  the  field  of  banners,  where  the  brave 
Are  striving  for  an  immortality? 
— It  is  e'en  so ! — Now  for  bright  arms  of  proof, 
A  helm,  a  keen-edged  falchion,  and  e'en  yet 
My  father  may  be  saved ! 

Vittoria.  Away,  be  strong! 

And  let  thy  battle-word,  to  rule  the  storm, 
Be— Conradin.  (We  rushes  out.) 

Oh !  for  one  hour  of  life. 

To  hear  that  name  blent  with  th'  exulting  thotit 
Of  victory  1 — It  will  not  be ! — A  mightier  power 
Doth  summon  me  away. 

Anselmo.  To  purer  worlds 

Raise  thy  last  thoughts  in  hope. 

Vittoria.  Yes !  he  is  there, 

All  glorious  in  his  beauty! — Conradin  1 
Death  parted  us — and  death  shall  reunite! 
— He  will  not  stay— it  is  all  darkness  now ! 
Night  gathers  o'er  my  spirit.  (She  dies  ) 

Anselmo.  She  is  gone ! 

It  is  an  awful  hour  which  stills  the  heart 
That  beat  so  proudly  once.— Have  mercy,  Heaven ! 
(He  kneels  beside  her.) 


SCENE  IV. — Before  the  Gates  of  Palermo. 

Sicilians  flying  tumultuously  towards  the  Oates. 

Voices  (without.)  Montjoy !  Montjoy  1  St.  Dennis 

for  Anjou ! 
Provencals,  on ! 

Sicilians.          Fly,  fly,  or  all  is  lost! 
(RAIMOND  appears  in  the  gateway,  armed,  and  carry- 
ing a  banner.) 

Raimond.    Back,  back,  I  say  I  ye  men  of  Sicily  I 
All  is  not  lost !    Oh  shame ! — A  few  brave  hearts 
In  such  a  cause,  ere  now,  have  set  their  breasts 
Against  the  rush  of  thousands,  and  suslain'd, 
And  mude  the  shock  recoil. — Ay,  man,  free  man, 
Still  to  be  rall'd  so,  hath  achieved  such  deeds 
As  heaven  and  earth  have  marvell'd  at ;  and  souls, 
Whose  spark  yet  slumbers  with  the  days  to  come, 
Shall  burn  to  hear;  transmitting  brightly  thus 
Freedom  from  race  to  race  I — Back !  or  prepare 
Am  dst    your  hearths,   your  bowers,  your  very 
ihrincs 


To  bleed  and  die  in  vain  ! — Turn,  follow  me! 

Conradin,  Conradin  !— for  Sicily 

His  spirit  tights! — Remember  Conradin! 

(They  begin  to  rally  round  him.) 
Ay,  this  is  well! — Now  follow  me,  and  charge! 

The  Provencals  rush  in,  but  are  rcpulned  by  the 
Sicilians. 

[Exeunt 

SCENE  V.— Part  of  the  Field  of  Battle. 

MONTALBA  enters  wounded,  and  supported  by  RAI 
MONO,  whose  face  is  concealed  by  his  helmet. 

Raimond.     Here  rest  thee,  warrior. 

Montalba.  Rest !  ay,  death  is  rest, 

And  such  will  soon  be  mine — But  thanks  to  thee, 
I  shall  not  die  a  captive.    Brave  Sicilian  ! 
These  lips  are  all  unused  to  soothing  wonls, 
Or  I  should  bless  the  valour  which  hath  won, 
For  my -last  hour,  the  proud  free  solitude 
Wherewith  my  soul  would  gird  itself. — Thy  name? 

Raimond.  'Twill  be  no  music  to  thine  ear,  Mon- 

talba. 
Gaze— read  it  thus !  (He  lifts  the  visor  of  his  helmet.) 

Montalba.  Raimond  di  Procida  ! 

Raimond.    Thou  hast  pursued  me  with  a  bitter 

hate: 
But  fare  thee  well!  Heaven's  peace  be  with  thy 

soul ! 

I  must  away— One  glorious  effort  more. 
And  this  proud  field  is  won  !  [Exit  RAIMOND. 

Montalba.  Am  I  thus  humbled  ? 

How  my  heart  sinks  within  me!     But  'tis  death 
(And  he  can  tame  the  mightiest)  hath  subdued 
My  towering  nature  thus  ! — Yet  is  he  welcome  I 
That  youth — 't  was  in  his  pride  he  rescued  me! 
I  was  his  deadliest  foe,  and  thus  he  proved 
His  fearless  scorn.     Ha !  ha  !  but  he  shall  fail 
To  melt  me  into  womanish  feebleness. 
There  I  still  baffle  him— the  grave  shall  seal 
My  lips  for  ever — mortal  shall  not  hear 
Montalba  say — "forgive!"  \He  dies. 

SCENE  VI. — Another  part  of  the  Field. 
PROCIDA,  GDIDO,  and  other  Sicilians. 

Procida.  The  day  is  ours;  but   he,   the   brave 

unknown, 

Who  turn'd  the  tide  of  battle ;  he  whose  path 
Was  victory — who  hath  seen  him? 

AI.BERTI  is  brought  in,  wounded  and  fettered. 

Alberti.  Procida ! 

Procida.    Be  silent,  traitor !— Bear  him  from  my 

sight 
Unto  your  deepest  dungeons. 

Alberti.  In  the  grave 
A  nearer  home  awaits  me. — Yet  one  word 
Rre  my  voice  fail — thy  son 

Procida.  Speak,  speak! 

Alberti.  Thy  son 

Knows  not  a  thought  of  guilt.  That  trait'rous  plot 
Was  mine  a'.one.  (He  is  led  away) 

Procida.  *  Attest  it,  earth  and  Heaven  ! 

My  son  is  guiltless  ! — Hear  it,  Sicily  1 
The  blood  of  Procida  is  noble  still ! — 
My  son! — He  lives,  he  lives! — His  voice  shall  speak 
Forgiveness  to  his  sire  ! — His  name  shall  cast 
Its  brightness  o'er  my  soul ! 

Guide.  Oh,  day  of  joy  I 

The  brother  of  my  heart  is  worthy  still 
The  lofty  name  he  bears. 

ANSELMO  entert. 

Procida.  Anselmo,  welcome  1 

In  a  glad  hour  we  meet ;  for  know,  my  son 
Is  guiltless. 

Anselmo.    And  victorious!  by  his  arm 
All  hath  been  rescued. 

Procida.  How! — the  unknown— 

Anselmo  Was  lie 

Thy  noble  Raimond  !    By  Vittoria's  hand 
Freed  from  his  bondage,  in  that  awful  hour 
When  all  was  flight  and  terror. 

Procida.  Now  my  cup 

Of  joy  too  brightly  mantles  !— Let  me  press 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


145 


My  warrior  to  a  father's  heart — and  die  ; 

For  life  hath  naught  beyond— Why  comes  he  not? 

Anselmo,  lead  me  to  my  valiant  boy  ! 

Jinselmo.  Temper  this  proud  delight. 

Procida.  What  means  that  look  7 

He  hath  not  fallen  ? 

Jinselmo.  He  lives. 

Procida.  Away,  away! 

Bid  the  wide  city  with  triumphal  pomp 
Prepare  to  greet  her  victor.    Let  this  hour 
Atone  for  all  his  wrongs !—  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  VII.— Garden  of  a  Convent. 
RAIMOND  is  led  in  wounded,  leaning  on  Attendants. 

Raimond.  Bear  me  to  no  dull  couch,  hut  let  me  die 
In  the  bright  face  of  nature!— Lift  my  helm, 
That  I  may  look  on  Heaven. 

Pint  Attendant  (to  second  Attendant.)    Lay  him 

to  rest 

On  this  preen  sunny  bank,  and  I  will  call 
Some  holy  sister  to  his  aid  :  but  thou 
Return  unto  the  field,  for  high-born  men 
There  need  the  peasant's  aid. 

[Kr.it  second  Attendant. 

(To  Raimond.)  Here  gentle  hands 

Shall  tend  thee,  warrior;  for  in  these  retreats 
They  dwell,  whose  vows  devote  them  to  the  care 
Of  all  that  suffer.  May'st  thou  live  to  bless  them  ! 

kExit  first  Attendant. 
'd  to  die  1— 'T  was  a 
proud  strife  ! 

My  father  bless'd  th'  unknown  who  rescued  him, 
(Bless'd  him,  alas  1  because  unknown  !)  and  Guide, 
Beside  me  bravely  struggling,  call'd  aloud, 
"  Noble  Sicilian,  on  !"    Oh  !  had  they  deem'd 
'T  was  I  who  led  that  rescue,  they  had  spurn'd 
Mine  aid, though  'twas  deliverance;  and  their  looks 
Had  fallen,  like  blights,  upon  me.— There  is  one, 
Whose  eye  ne'er  turn'd  on  mine,  but  its  blue  light 
fJreu'  softer,  trembling  through  the  dewy  mist 
Raised  by  deep  tenderness! — Oh,  mieht  the  soul 
Set  in  that  eye,  shine  on  me  ere  I  perish  1 
— Is't  not  her  voice? 

CONSTANCE  enters,  speaking  to  a  JWn,  wht  turn* 
into  another  path. 

Constance.  Oh  1  happy  they,  kind  sister, 

Whom  thus  ye  tend ;  for  it  is  theirs  to  fall 
With  brave  men  side  by  side,  when  the  roused  heart 
Beats  proudly  to  the  last !— There  are  high  souls 
Whose  hope  was  such  a  death,  and  'tis  denied  1 

(She  approaches  RAIMOND.) 
Young  warrior,    is  there  aught— thou  here,    my 

Raimond! 
Thou  here— and  thus !— Oh !  is  this  joy  or  woe  ? 

Raimond.  Joy,  be  it  joy,  my  own,  my  blessed  love, 
E'en  on  the  grave's  dim  verge !— yes !  it  is  joy  ! 
Mv  Constance!  victors  have  been  crown'd,  ere  now, 
With  the  green  shining  laurel,  when  their  brows 
Wore  death's  own  impress — and  it  may  be  thus 
T.'en  yet,  with  me  !— They  freed  me,  when  the  foe 
Mad  half  prevail'd,  and  I  have  proudly  earn'd. 
With  my  heart's  dearest  blood,  the  meed  to  die 
Within  thine  arms.  • 

Constance.  Oh!  speak  not  thus— to  die  I 

TliBS«  wounds  may  yet  be  closed. 

(Site  attempts  to  bind  his  wounds.) 
Look  on  me,  love! 

Why,  there  is  more  than  life  in  thy  glad  mien. 
'Tis  full  of  hope !  and  from  thy  kindled  eye 
Breaks  e'en  unwonted  light,  whose  ardent  ray 
Seems  born  to  be  immortal  I 

Raimond.  'Tis  e'en  sol 

The  parting  soul  doth  gather  all  her  fires 
Around  her ;  al  her  glorious  hopes,  and  dreams, 
And  burning  aspirations,  to  illume 
The  shadowy  dimness  of  the  untrodden  path 
Which  lies  before  her;  and,  encircled  thus, 
Awhile  she  sits  in  dying  eyes,  and  thence 
Sends  forth  her  bright  farewell.    Thy  gentle  cares 
Are  vain,  and  yet  I  bless  them. 

Constance.  Say  not  vain ; 

The  dying  look  not  thus     We  shall  not  part  I 

10 


Raimond.  I  have  seen  death  ere  now,  and  knowa 

him  wear 
Full  many  a  changeful  aspect. 

Constance.  Oh  t  but  none 

Radiant  as  thine,  my  warrior! — Thou  wilt  live 
Look  round  thee  t— all  is  sunshine— is  not  this 
A  smiling  world? 

Raimond.  Ay,  gentlest  love,  a  world 

Of  joyous  beauty  and  magnificence, 
Almost 'too  fair  to  leave! — Yet  must  we  tame 
Our  ardent  hearts  to  this!— Oh,  weep  thou  not  I 
There  is  no  home  for  liberty,  or  love, 
Beneath  these  festal  skies  t— Be  not  deceived; 
My  way  lies  far  beyond  ! — I  shall  be  soon 
That  viewless  thing,  which,  with  its  mortal  weeds 
Casting  off  meaner  passions,  yet,  we  trust, 
Forgets  not  how  to  love  I 

Constance.  And  must  this  be  ? 

Heaven,  thou  art  merciful!— Oh!  bid  our  souls 
Depart  together  I 

Raimond  Constance  I  there  is  strength 

Within  thy  gentle  heart,  which  hath  been  proved 
Nobly,  for  me  : — Arouse  it  once  again  ! 
Thy  grief  unmans  me — and  I  fain  would  meet 
That  which  approaches,  as  a  brave  man  yields 
With  proud  submission  to  a  mightier  foe. 
— It  is  upon  me  now  ! 

Constance.  I  will  be  calm. 

Let  thy  head  rest  upon  my  bosom,  Raimond, 
And  I  will  so  suppress  its  quick  deep  sobs, 
They  shall  but  rock  thee  to  thy  rest.    There  is 
A  world,  (ay,  let  us  seek  it !)  where  no  blight 
Falls  on  the  beautiful  rose  of  youth,  and  there 
I  shall  be  with  thee  soon  1 

PROCIDA.  and  ANSELMO  enter.   PROCIDA,  on  seeing 

RAIMOND,  starts  back. 
Anselmo.  TJft  up  thy  head, 

Brave  youth,  exultingly !  for  lo!  thine  hour 
Of  glory  comes  I — Oh !  doth  it  come  too  late  ? 
E'en  now  the  false  Alberti  hath  confess'd 

hat  guilty  plot,  for  which  thy  life  was  doom'd 
To  be  th'  atonement. 

Raimond.  'Tis  enough!  Rejoice, 

Rejoice,  my  Constance!  for  I  leave  a  name 
O'er  which  thou  may'st  weep  proudly  1 

'He  sinks  back.) 
To  thy  breast 

Fold  me  yet  closer,  for  an  icy  dart 
Hath  touch'd  my  veins. 

Constance.  And  must  thou  leave  me,  Raimond  » 
Alas!  thine  eye  grows  dim— its  wandering  glance 
Is  full  of  dreams. 

Raimond.  Haste,  haste,  and  tell  my  father 

I  was  no  traitor! 

Procida  (rushing  forward.)  To  that  father's  heart 
Return,  forgiving  all  thy  wrongs,  return! 
Speak  to  me,  Raimond  !— Thou  wert  ever  kind, 
And  brave,  and  gentle  !  Say  that  all  the  past 
Shall  be  forgiven  !  That  word  from  none  but  thee 
My  lips  e'er  ask'd. — Speak  to  me  once,  my  boy, 
My  pride,  my  hope!— And  is  it  \v,ith  thee  thus? 
Look  on  me  yet ! — Oh!  must  this  woe  be  borne  ? 
Raimond.    Off  with  this  weight  of  chains!  it  is 

not  meet 

For  a  crown'd  conqueror! — Hark!  the  trumpet's 
voice ! 

(A  sound  of  triumphant  music  is  hear 
gradually  approaching.) 

Is't  not  a  thrilling  call  ?— What  drowsy  spell 
Benumbs  me  thus?— Hence!  I  am  free  again  ! 
Now  swell  your  festal  strains,  the  field  is  won! 
Sing  me  to  glorious  dreams.  (He  diet.) 

Anselmo.  The  strife  is  past. 

There  fled  a  noble  spirit 

Constance.  Hush  I  he  sleeps- 

Disturb  him  not! 

Anselmo.  Alas!  this  is  no  sleep 

From  which  the  eye  doth  radiantly  unclose: 
Bow  down  thy  soul,  for  earthly  hope  is  o'erl 

(The  music  continues  approaching.    GUIDO 
enters,  with  Citizens  and  Soldiers.) 

Ovido.  The  shrines  are  deck'd,  the  festive  torches 
blaze— 


148 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Where  is  our  brave  deliverer  ? — We  are  come 
To  crown  Palermo's  victor  I 

Anselmo.  Ye  come  too  late. 

Thu  voice  of  human  praise  doth  send  no  echo 
Into  the  world  of  spirits.  (The  music  ceases.) 

Procida  (after  a  pause.)   Is  this  dust 
I  look  on— Raimond  ?— 't  is  but  sleep— a  smile 
On  his  pale  cheek  sits  proudly.    Raimond,  wake  I 
Ob,  God !  and  this  was  his  triumphant  day  1 
My  son,  my  injured  son! 

Constance  (starting.)      Art  thou  bis  father  1 
I  know  thee  now. — Hence  1  with  thy  dark  stern  eye, 
And  thy  cold  heart  I   Thou  canst  not  wake  him 

now . 

Away  !  he  will  not  answer  but  to  me, 
For  none  like  me  bath  loved  him  1    He  is  mine  I 
Ye  shall  not  rend  him  from  me. 

Procidn.  Ob!  he  knew 


Thy  love,  poor  maid ! — Shrink  from  me  now  n» 

more  ! 

He  knew  thy  heart— but  who  shall  tell  him  now 
The  depth,  th'  intenseness,  and  the  agony, 
Of  my  suppress'd  affection  ? — I  have  learn'd 
All  his  high  worth  in  time  to  deck  his  grave  1 
Is  there  not  power  in  the  strong  spirit's  woe 
To  force  an  answer  from  the  viewless  world 
Of  the  departed  ? — Raimond ! — Speak  !  forgive ! 
Raimond)  my  victor,  my  deliverer,  hear! 
Why,  what  a  world  is  this  ! — Truth  ever  burst* 
On  the  dark  soul  too  late :  and  glory  crowns 
Th'  unconscious  deadl  An  hour  comee  to  break 
The  mightiest  hearts !— My  son !  my  son  I  is  this 
A  day  of  triumph ! — Ay,  for  thee  alone  I 

(He  throws  himself  upon  the  body  of  RAIMOND.) 
[Curtain  fall* 


THE 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


IT  was  In  th«  year  1308,  that  the  Swiss  rose  against  the  tyranny  of  the  Bailiffs  appointed  ore* 
them  by  Albert  of  Austria.  The  field  called  the  Orutli,  at  the  foot  of  the  Seelisberg,  and  near  the 
boundaries  of  Uri  and  Unterwalden,  was  fixed  upon  by  three  spirited  yeomen,  Walter  Furst,  (the 
father-in-law  of  William  Tell,)  Werner  Stauffacher,  and  Ernl  (or  Arnold)  Melchthal,  as  their  place 
of  meeting  to  deliberate  on  the  accomplishment  of  their  projects. 

"Hither  came  Furst  and  Melchthal,  along  secret  paths  over  the  heights,  and  Stauffaeher  in  hU 
•oat  across  the  Lake  of  the  Four  Cantons.  On  the  night  preceding  the  llth  of  November,  1307,  they 
net  here,  each  with  ten  associates,  men  of  approved  worth ;  and  while  at  this  solemn  hour  they 
were  wrapt  in  the  contemplation  that  on  their  success  depended  the  fate  of  their  whole  posterity, 
Werner,  Walter,  and  Arnold,  held  up  their  hands  to  heaven,  and  in  the  name  of  the  Almighty,  who 
has  created  man  to  an  inalienable  degree  of  freedom,  swore  jointly  and  strenuously  to  defend  that 
freedom.  The  thirty  associates  heard  the  oath  with  awe  ;  and  with  uplifted  hands  attested  the  same 
God,  and  all  his  saints,  that  they  were  firmly  bent  on  offering  up  their  lives  for  the  defence  of  their 
injured  liberty.  They  then  calmly  agreed  on  their  future  proceedings,  and  for  the  present,  each 
returned  to  his  hamlet." — Planta's  History  of  the  Helvetic  Confederacy. 

On  the  first  day  of  the  year  1308,  they  succeeded  In  throwing  off  the  Austrian  yoke,  and  "it  i« 
well  attested,"  says  the  same  author,  "that  not  one  drop  of  blood  was  shed  on  this  memorable 
occasion,  nor  had  one  proprietor  to  lament  the  loss  of  a  claim,  a  privilege,  or  an  inch  of  land.  The 
Swiss  met  on  the  succeeding  Sabbath,  and  once  more  confirmed  by  oath  their  ancient,  and  (as  they 
fondly  named  it)  their  perpetual  league." 


THE 


LEAGUE   OF  THE  ALPS. 


T  WAS  night  upon  the  Alps.— The  Sen  n's(l)  wild 

horn, 

Like  a  wind's  voice,  had  pour'd  its  last  long  tone, 
Whose  pealing  echoes  through  the  larch-woods 

borne, 

To  the  low  cabins  of  the  glens  made  known 
That  welcome  steps  were  nigh.    The  flocks  had 

gone, 

By  cliff  and  pine-bridge,  to  their  place  of  rest; 
The  chamois  slumber'd,  for  the  chase  was  done ; 
His  cavern-bed  of  moss  the  hunter  press'd, 
A  nd  the  rock-eagle  couch'd  high  on  his  cloudy  nest. 

II. 

Did  the  land  sleep?— the  woodman's  axe  had 

ceased 

Its  ringing  notes  upon  the  beech  and  plane ; 
The  grapes  were  gather'd  in  ;  the  vintage  feast 
Was  closed  upon  the  hills,  the  reaper's  strain 
Hush'd  by  the  streams ;  the  year  was  in  its  wane, 
The  night  in  its  mid-watch ;  it  was  a  time 
E'en  mark'd  and  hallow'd  unto  slumber's  reign. 
But  thoughts  were  stirring,  restless  and  sublime. 
And  o'er  his  white  Alps  moved  the  spirit  of  the 

clime. 

HI. 

For    there,  where  snows,  in  crowning   glory 

spread, 

High  and  unmark'd  by  mortal  footstep  lay  ; 
And  there,  where  torrents,  'mid  Hie  ice-caves  fed, 
Burst  in  their  joy  of  light  and  sound  away  ; 
And  there,  where  freedom,  as  in  scornful  play, 
Had  hung  man's  dwellings  'midst  the  realms  of 

air, 

O'er  cliffs  the  very  birth-place  of  the  day— 
Oh!  who  would  dream  that  tyranny  could  dare 
To  lay  her  withering  hand  on  God's  bright  works 

e'en  there  1 

IV. 

Y«t  thus  it  was— amidst  the  fleet  streams  gush- 
ing 

To  bring  down  rainbows  o'er  their  sparry  cell, 
And  the  glad  heights,  through  mist  and  tempest 

rushing 

Up  where  the  sun's  red  fire-glance  earliest  fell. 
And  the  fresh  pastures  where  the  herd's  sweet 

bell 

Recall'd  such  life  as  Eastern  patriarchs  led: 
There  peasant-men  their  free  thoughts  might  not 

tell 

Save  in  the  hour  of  shadows  and  of  dread, 
And    hallow  sounds  that  wake  to  Guilt's  dull 
dealt  ky  tread. 


V. 

But  In  a  land  of  happy  shepherd  homes, 
On  its  green  hills  in  quiet  joy  reclining 
With  their  bright  hearth-fires  'midst  the  twilight 

glooms, 

From  bowery  lattice  through  the  fir-woods  shin- 
ing; 

A  land  of  legends  and  wild  songs,  entwining 
Their   memory  with  all   memories   loved  and 

blest— 

In  such  a  land  there  dwells  a  power,  combining 
The  strength  of  many  a  calm,  but  fearless  breast; 
—And  woe  to  him  who  breaks  the  Sabbath  of  it* 
rest  I 

VI. 
A  sound  went  up— the  wave's  dark  sleep  wai 

broken — 

On  Uri's  lake  was  heard  a  midnight  oar — 
Of  man's  brief  course  a  troubled  moment's  token 
Th'  eternal  waters  to  their  barriers  bore; 
And  then  their  gloom  a  flashing  image  wore 
Of  torch-fires  streaming  out  o'er  crag  and  wood, 
And  the  wild  falcon's  wing  was  heard  to  soar 
In  startled  haste— and  by  that  moonlight  flood, 
A  band  of  patriot-men  on  Grutli's  verdure  stood. 

VII. 

They  stood  in  arms— the  wolf-spear  and  the  bow 
Had  waged  their  war  on  things  of  mountain 

race ; 
Might  not  their  swift  stroke  reach  a  mail-clad 

foe? 

—Strong  hands  in  harvest,  daring  feet  in  chase, 
True  hearts  in  fight,  were  gather'd  on  that  place 
Of  secret  council.— Not  for  fame  or  spoil 
So  met  those  men  in  Heaven's  majestic  face; — 
To  guard  free  hearths  they  rose,  the  sons  of  toil. 
The  hunter  of  the  rocks,  the  tiller  of  the  soil. 

VIII. 

O'er  their  low  pastoral  valleys  might  the  tide 
Of  years  have  flow'd,  and  still,  from  sire  to  eon, 
Their  names  and  records  on  the  green  earth  died, 
As  cottage-lamps,  expiring  one  by  one, 
In  the  dim  glades,  when  midnight  hath  begun 
To  hush  all  sound. — But  silent  on  its  height. 
The  snow-mass,  full  of  death,  while  ages  run 
Their  course,  may  slumber,  bathed  in  rosy  light. 
Till  some  rash  voice  or  step  disturb  its  brooding 

might. 

IX. 

So  were  they  roused — th'  invading  step  had  part 
Their  cabin  thresholds,  and  the  lowly  door. 
Which  well  had  stood  against  the  Fohn  wind's  (2) 

blast. 
Could  bur  Oppression  from  their  home  no  uior*. 


150 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Why,  what  had  she  to  do  where  all  things  wore 
Wild  grandeur's  impress  ? — In  the  storm's  free 

way. 

How  dared  she  lift  her  pageant  crest  before 
Th' enduring  and  magnificent  array 
Of  sovereign  Alps,  that  wing'd  their  eagles  with 
the  day  ? 

X. 

This  might  not  long  be  borne— the  tameless  hills 
Have  voices  from  the  cave  and  cataract  swelling, 
Fraught  with  His  name,  whose  awful  presence 

fills 

Their  deep  lone  places,  and  for  ever  telling 
That  He  hath  made  man  free  1  and  they  whose 

dwelling 

Was  in  those  ancient  fastnesses,  gave  ear; 
The  weight  of  sufferance  from  their  hearts  re- 
pelling. 

They  rose— the  forester— the  mountaineer — 
)h !  what  hath  earth  more  strong  than  the  good 
peasant-spear? 

XL 

Sacred  be  Grutli's  field— their  vigil  keeping 
Through  many  a  blue  and  starry  summer-night. 
There  while  the  sons  of  happier  lauds  were 

sleeping. 

Had  those  brave  Switzers  met ;  and  in  the  sight 
Of  the  just  God,  who  pours  forth  burning  might 
To  gird  the  oppress'd,  had  given  their  deep 

thoughts  way, 

And  braced  their  spirits  for  the  patriot  fight, 
With  lovely  images  of  homes  that  lay 
Bower'd  'midat  the  rustling  pines,  or  by  the  torrent 

spray. 

XII. 
Now  had  endurance  reach'd  its  bounds !— They 

MUM 

With  eouraee  set  in  each  bright  earnest  eye, 
The  day,  the  signal,  and  the  hour  to  name. 
When  they  should  eath*r  on  their  hills  to  die, 
Or  shake  the  Glaciers  with  their  joyous  cry 
For  the  land's  freedom. — 'Tv  as  a  scene,  com 

bining 

All  glory  in  itself— the  solemn  sky, 
The  stars,  the  waves  their  soften'd  light  en 

shrining, 
And  man's  high  soul  supreme  o'er  mighty  Nature 

shining. 

XIII. 

Calmly  they  stood,  and  with  collected  mien, 
Breathing  their  souls  in  voices  firm  but  low, 
As  if  the  spirit  of  the  hour  and  scene, 
With  the  woods'  whisper  and  the  waves'  sweet 

flow, 

Had  temper'd  in  their  thoughtful  hearts  the  glow 
Of  all  indignant  feeling.    To  the  breath 
Of  Dorian  flute,  and  lyre-note  soft  and  slow, 
E'en  thus,  of  old,  the  Spartan  from  its  sheath 
Drew  his  devoted  sword,  and  girt  himself  for  death, 

XIV. 

And  three,  that  seetn'd  as  chieftains  of  the  band, 
Were  gatber'd  in  the  midst  on  that  lone  shore 
By  Uri's  lake— a  father  of  the  land,  (3) 
One  on  his  brow  the  silent  record  wore 
Of  many  days  whose  shadows  had  pass'd  o'er 
His  path  among  the  hills,  and  quench'd  the  dreams 
Of  youth  with  sorrow. — Yet  from  memory's  lore 
Still  his  life's  evening  drew  its  loveliest  gleams, 
For  he  bad  walk'd  with  God,  beside  the  mountain 
streams. 

XV. 

And  his  gray  hairs,  in  happier  times,  might  well 
To  their  last  pillow  silently  have  gone, 
As  melts  a  wreath  of  snow. — But  who  shall  tell 
How  life  may  task  the  spirit? — He  was  one, 
Who  from  its  morn  a  freeman's  work  had  done, 
And  reap'd  his  harvest,  and  his  vintage  press'd, 
Fearless  of  wrong ;  and  now,  at  set  of  sun, 
He  bow'd  not  to  his  years,  for  on  the  breast 
Of  a  still  chainless  land  he  deem'd  it  much  to  rest. 


XVI. 

But  for  such  holy  rest  strong  hands  must  toil. 
Strong  hearts  endure !— By  that  pale  elder's  side. 
Stood  one  that  seem'd  a  monarch  of  the  soil, 
Serene  and  stately  in  his  manhood's  pride,         * 
Werner,  '4)  the  brave  and  true !— If  men  hav« 

died, 

Their  hearths  and  shrines  inviolate  to  keep, 
He  was  a  mate  for  such. — The  voice,  that  cried 
Within  his  breast,  "  Arise  !"  came  still  and  deep 
Prom  his  far  home,  that  smiled  e'en  then  in  moon- 
light sleep. 

XVII. 

It  was  a  home  to  die  for! — As  it  rose 
Through  its  vine-foliage,  sending  forth  a  sound 
Of  mirthful  childhood,  o'er  the  green  repose 
And  laughing  sunshine  of  the  pastures  round  ; 
And  be  whose  life  to  that  sweet  spot  was  bound, 
Raised  unto  Heaven  a  glad  yet  thoughtful  eye, 
And  set  his  free  step  firmer  on  the  ground. 
When  o'er  his  soul  its  melodies  went  by 
As  through  some  Alpine  pass,  a  breeze  of  Italy. 

XVIII. 

But  who  was  he,  that  on  his  hunting-spear 
Lean'd  with  a  prouder  and  more  fiery  bearing? 
— His  was  a  brow  for  tyrant  hearts  to  fear. 
Within  the  shadow  of  its  dark  locks  wearing 
That  which  they  may  not  tame — a  soul  declaring 
War  against  earth's  oppressors. — 'Midst   tha 

throng. 

Of  other  mould  he  seein'd,  and  loftier  daring, 
One  whose  blood  swept  high  impulses  along. 
One  that  should  pass,  and  leave  a  name  for  war- 
like song, 

XIX. 

A  memory  on  the  mountains! — one  to  stand, 
When  the  hills  echoed  with  the  deepening  swel. 
Of  hostile  trumpets,  foremost  for  the  land. 
And  in  some  rock  defile,  or  savage  dell, 
Array  her  peasant-children  to  repel 
Th'  invader,  sending  arrows  for  hi?  chains! 
Ay,  one  to  fold  around  him,  as  he  fell, 
Her  banner  with  a  smile — for  through  his  veins 
The  joy  of  danger  flow  d,  as  torrents  to  the  plains. 

XX. 

There  was  at  times  a  wildness  in  the  light 
Of  his  quick-flashing  eye ;  a  something,  born 
Of  the  free  Alps,  and  beautifully  bright. 
And  proud,  and  tameless,  laughing  Fearto  scorn  ( 
It  well  might  be! — Young  Erni's(5)  step  had 

worn 

The  mantling  snows  on  thrir  most  regal  steeps. 
And  track'd  the  lynx  above  the  clouds  of  morn, 
And  follow'd  where  the  flying  chamois  leaps 
Across  the  dark-blue  rifts,  th' unfatbom'd  glacier 

deeps. 

XXI. 

He  was  a  creature  of  the  Alpine  sky, 
A  being  whose  bright  spirit  had  been  fed 
'Midst  the  crown'd  heights  of  joy  and  liberty. 
And  thoughts  of  power.— He  knew  each  pat* 

which  led 

To  the  rock's  treasure-caves,  whose  crystals  she* 
Soft  light  o'er  secret  fountains. — At  the  tone 
Of  his  loud  horn,  the  Lammer-Geyer  (6)  bad 

spread 

A  startled  wing  ;  for  oft  that  peal  had  Mown 
Where  the  free  cataract's  voice  was  wont  to  souna 

alone. 

XXII. 
His  step  had  traek'd  the  waste,  his  soul  had 

stirr'd 

The  ancient  solitudes— his  voice  bad  told 
Of  wrongs  to  call  down  Heaven.  (7)  That  taU 

was  heard 

In  Hasli's  dales,  and  where  the  shepherd's  fold 
Their  flocks  in  dark  ravine  and  craggy  hold 
On  the  bleak  Oberland  ;  and  where  the  tight 
Of  Day's  last  footstep  bathes  in  burning  gob) 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


151 


Great  Right's  cliffs;  and  where  Mount  Pilate's 

height 
Cast*  o'er  his  glassy  lake  the  darkness  of  his  might. 

XXIII. 

Nor  was  it  heard  in  vain.— There  all  things  press 
High  thoughts  on  man.    The  fearless  huutor 

pass'd, 

•  And,  from  the  bosom  of  the  wilderness, 
fhere  leapt  a  spirit  and  a  power  to  cast 
The  weight  of  bondage  down— and  bright  and 

fast, 

As  the  clear  waters,  joyously  and  free. 
Burst  from  the  desert-rock,  it  rush'd  at  last, 
Through  the  far  valleys;  till  the  patriot  three 
Thus  with  their  brethren  stood,  beside  the  Forest 

Sea.  (8) 

XXIV. 
They  link'd  their  hands,— they  pledged   their 

stainless  faith, 

In  the  dread  presence  of  attesting  Heaven — 
They  bound  their  hearts  to  suffering  and  to 

death. 

With  the  severe  and  solemn  transport  given 
To  bless  such  vows. — How  man  had  striven, 
How  man  might  strive,  and  vainly  strive,  they 

knew. 

And  call'd  upon  their  God,  whose  arm  had  riven 
The  crest  of  many  a  tyrant,  since  He  blew 
The  foaming  sea-wave  on,  and  Egypt's  might 

o'erthrew. 

XXV. 
They  knelt,  and  rose  in  strength.— The  valleys 

lay 

Still  in  their  dimness,  but  the  peaks  which  darted 
Into  the  bright  mid-air,  had  caught  from  day 
A  flush  of  fire,  when  those  true  Switzers  parted 
Each  to  his  glen  or  forest,  steadfast-hearted, 
And  full  of  hope.    Not  many  suns  had  worn 
Their  setting  glory,  ere  from  slumber  started 
Ten  thousand  voices,  of  the  mountains  born — 
Bo  far  was  heard  the  blast  of  Freedom's  echoing 

horn  I 

XXVI. 
The  ice-vaults  trembled,  when  that  peal  came 

rending 

The  frozen  stillness  which  around  them  hung; 
From  cliff  to  cliff  the  avalanche  descending, 
Gave  answer,  till  the  sky's  blue  hollows  rung: 
And  the  flame-signals  through  the   midnight 

sprung, 

From  the  Surennen  rocks  like  banners  streaming 

To  the  far  Seelisberg ;  whence  light  was  flung 

On  Grutli's  field,  till  all  the  red  lake  gleaming 

Shone  out,  a  meteor-heaven  in  its  wild  splendour 

seeming. 

XXVII. 

And  the  winds  toss'd  each  summit's  Mazingcrest, 
As  a  host's  plumage  ;  and  the  giant  pines, 
Fell'd  where  they  waved  o'er  crag  and  eagle's 

nest, 
Heap'd  up  the  flames,    The  clouds  grew  fiery 

•if  i». 


As  o'er  a  city's  burning  towers  and  shrines 
Reddening  the  distance.    Wine-cups,  crown'd 

and  bright, 
In  Werner's  dwelling  flow'd;  through  leafless 

vines 
From  Walter's  hearth  stream'd  forth  the  festive 

light, 
And  Erni's  blind  old  sire  gave  thanks  to  Heaver 

that  night. 

XXVIII. 

Then  on  the  silence  of  the  snows  there  \tr 
A  Sabbath's  quiet  sunshine,— and  its  beV- 
Fill'it  the  hush'd  air  awhile,  with  lonely  sw 
For  the  stream's  voice  was  chain'd  by  Winter  « 

spell, 
Thedeep  wood-sounds  had  ceased. — But  rock  ana 

dell 

Rung  forth,  ere  long,  when  strains  of  jubilee 
Peal'd  from  the  mountain-churches,  with  a  swell 
Of  praise  to  Him  who  stills  the  raging  sea, — 
For  now  the  strife  was  closed,  the  glorious  Alpi 

were  free  I 


NOTE& 


NOTE.  1. 

__—_——  TV*  Smn'i  wild  turn. 
Stnn,  the  BUM  fiwn  to  a  berdnnmn  amooc  tb«  Swiw  Alp. 

NOTES. 

Afainit  l/u  Fohnwirvfi  Mo*. 

fohawind,  the  South-eut  wind,  which  frequently  Uyi  wute  Iht 
country  before  U. 

NOT*  3. 

——  A  father  of  th4  land. 
Witter  Font,  Uw  fctber-in-Uw  of  Tell. 

NOTE  4. 

fftnur,  Iht  travt  and  true  Hff- 
Werner  Stauflicher,  who  h»d  been  urged  by  hit  wife  to  roue  ul 

unite  hii  countrymen  for  the  deliverance  of  Switzerland. 

NOTB&, 

_—  rounf  frnfr  lUf  had  warn,  *•. 
Bral,  Arnold  JWehUaO. 

NOTE  6. 

Tht  Lammtr-Oeyer  had  tpread,  fe. 
Tht  Ummer-Geyer,  the  largest  kind  of  Alpine  e*f  U. 

NOTE?. 

Of  wrong!  to  all  down  Heaven,  +C. 
The  eye«  of  hii  ijed  father  hid  been  put  out,  by  the  order,  of  th« 


Austrian  Governor. 


NOTE 


TbeUke  of  the  FOOT  Union.  U  frequently  iocaUe*. 


RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 


Mightier  fai 

Than  strength  of  nerve  or  sinew,  or  the  sway 
Of  magic,  potent  orer  inn  and  star, 
I*  lore,  though  oft  to  agony  dUtrest, 
Aid  though  hi*  favourite  seat  be  feeble  woman's  breast 

Wordnoorik. 

DM  1st  das  Loos  des  Sehonen  auf  der  Brdet 


RECOOS  OF  WOMAN. 


ARABELLA    STUART. 


"The  Lady  Arabella,"  as  she  has  been  frequently  en 
titled,  was  descended  from  Margaret,  eldest  daughter  of 
Henry  VII.,  and  consequently  allied,  by  birth,  to  Eliza- 
beth, as  well  as  James  I.  This  affinity  to  the  throne 
proved  the  misfortune  of  her  life,  as  the  jealousies  which 
it  constantly  excited  in  her  royal  relatives,  who  were 
anxious  to  prevent  her  marrying,  shut  her  out  from  the 
enjoyment  of  that  domestic  happiness  which  her  heart 
appears  to  have  so  fervently  desired.  By  a  secret,  but 
early  discovered  union,  with  William  Seymour,  son  of 
Lord  Beauchamp,  she  alarmed  the  cabinet  of  James, 
and  the  wedded  lovers  were  immediately  placed  in  sepa- 
rate confinement.  From  this  they  found  means  to  con- 
cert a  romantic  plan  of  escape ;  and  having  won  over  a 
female  attendant,  by  whose  assistance  she  was  disguised 
in  male  attire,  Arabella,  though  faint  from  recent  sick- 
ness and  suffering,  stole  out  in  the  night,  and  at  last 
reached  an  appointed  spot,  where  a  boat  and  servants 
were  in  waiting.  She  embarked;  and,  at  break  of  day, 
a  French  vessel,  engaged  to  receive  her,  was  discovered 
and  gained.  As  Seymour,  however,  had  not  yet  arrived, 
she  was  desirous  that  the  vessel  should  lie  at  anchor  for 
him;  but  this  wish  was  overruled  by  her  companions, 
who.  contrary  to  her  entreaties,  hoisted  sail,  "which," 
says  D'Israeli,  "occasioned  so  fatal  a  termination  to 
this  romantic  adventure.  Seymour,  indeed,  had  escaped 
from  the  Tower : — he  reached  the  wharf,  and  found  his 
confidential  man  waiting  with  a  boat,  and  arrived  at  Lee. 
The  time  passed ;  the  waves  were  rising  ;  Arabella  was 
not  there;  but  in  the  distance  he  descried  a  vessel. 
Hiring  a  fisherman  to  take  him  on  board,  he  discovered, 
to  his  grief,  on  hailing  il,  that  it  was  not  the  French  ship 
charged  with  his  Arabella ;  in  despair  and  confusion  he 
found  another  ship  from  Newcastle,  which,  for  a  large 
sum,  altered  its  course,  and  landed  him  in  Flanders."— 
Arabella,  meantime,  while  imploring  her  attendants  to 
linger,  and  earnestly  looking  out  for  the  expected  boat 
of  her  husband,  was  overtaken  in  Calais  Roads  by  a 
vessel  in  the  King's  service,  and  brought  back  to  a  cap- 
tivity, under  the  suffering  of  which  her  mind  and  con- 
stitution gradually  sunk — "  What  passed  in  tfiat  dread- 
ful imprisonment,  cannot,  perhaps,  be  recovered  for 
authentic  history, — but  enough  is  known ;  that  her  mind 
grew  impaired,  that  she  finally  lost  her  reason,  and,  if 
the  duration  of  her  imprisonment  was  short,  that  it  was 
only  terminated  by  her  death.  Some  effusions,  often  be- 
gun and  never  ended,  written  and  erased,  incoherent 
and  rational)  jret  remain  among  her  papers."-i)'/»raeii'» 
Curiosities  of  Literature. — The  following  poem,  meant 
as  some  record  of  her  fate,  and  the  imagined  fluctuations 
of  her  thoughts  and  feelings,  is  supposed  to  commence 
during  the  time  of  her  first  imprisonment,  while  her 
mind  was  yet  buoyed  up  by  the  consciousness  of  Sey- 
mour's affection,  and  the  cherished  hope  of  eventual 
deliverance. 


»nd  U  not  Ion  In  Tain, 
Tartar*  snoach  without  a  living  tomb  ? 


Ittmmi  ilfln  il  cor  che  tain  Unto. 

findemont* 


T w AS  but  a  drean  t — I  saw  the  stag  leap  free, 

Under  the  boughs  where  early  birds  were  singing 
I  stood,  o'ersbadow'd  by  the  greenwood  tree. 

And  heard,  it  aeem'd,  a  sudden  bugle  ringing 
Far  thro'  a-royal  forest :  then  the  fawn 
Shot,  like  a  gleam  of  light,  from  grassy  lawn 
To  secret  covert ;  -and  the  smooth  turf  shook, 
And  lilies  quiver'd  by  the  glade's  lone  brook. 
And  young  leaves  trembled,  as,  in  fleet  career, 
A  princely  band,  with  horn,  and  hound,  and  spear, 
Like  a  rich  masque  swept  forth.    I  saw  the  dance 
Of  their  white  plumes,  that  bore  a  silvery  glance 
Into  the  deep  wood's  heart ;  and  all  pass'd  by. 
Save  one— I  met  the  smile  of  one  clear  eye, 
Flashing  out  joy  to  mine. — Yes,  t/wu  wert  there, 
Seymour!  a  soft  wind  blew  the  clustering  hair 
Back  from  thy  gallant  brow,  as  thou  didst  rein 
Thy  courser,  turning  from  that  gorgeous  train, 
And  fling,  mi-thought,  thy  hunting-spear  away. 
And,  lightly  graceful  in  thy  green  array, 
Bound  to  my  side ;  and  we,  that  met  and  parted. 

Ever  in  dread  of  some  dark  watchful  power, 
Won  back  tochildhood's  trust,  and, fearless-hearted, 

Blent  the  glad  fullness  of  our  thoughts  that  hour 
Ey'n  like  the  mingling  of  sweet  streams,  beneath 
Dim  woven  leaves,  and  midst  the  floating  breath 
Of  hidden  forest  flowers. 

II. 

'T  is  past !— I  wake, 

A  captive,  and  alone,  and  far  from  thee, 
My  love  and  friend !    Yet  fostering,  for  thy  sake, 

A  quenchless  hope  of  happiness  to  be ; 
And  feeling  still  my  woman's  spirit  strong, 
In  the  deep  faith  which  lifts  from  earthly  wrong, 
A  heavenward  glance.     I  know,  I  know  our  love 
Shall  yet  call  gentle  angels  from  above, 
By  its  undying  fervour ;  and  prevail, 
Sending  a  breath,  as  of  the  spring's  first  gale, 
Thro'  hearts  now  cold  ;  and,  raising  its  bright  face 
With  a  free  gush  of  sunny  tears  erase 
The  characters  of  anguish  ;  in  this  trust, 
1  bear,  I  strive,  I  bow  not  to  the  dust, 
That  I  may  bring  thee  back  no  faded  form, 
No  bosom  chill'd  and  blighted  by  the  storm, 
But  all  my  youth's  first  treasures,  when  we  meet 
Making  past  sorrow,  by  communion,  sweet. 

III. 

And  thou  too  art  in  bonds !— yet  droop  thou  not, 
Oh,  my  beloved  I— there  is  one  hopeless  lot, 
But  one,  and  that  not  ours.    Beside  the  dead 
There  sits  the  grief  that  mantles  up  its  head, 
Loathing  the  laughter  and  proud  pomp  of  light. 
When  darkness,  from  the  vainly-doting  sight. 
Covers  its  beautiful !  (1)    If  thou  wert  gone 

To  the  grave's  bosom,  with  thy  radiant  brow,— 
If  thy  deep- thrilling  voice,  with  that  low  tone 

Of  earnest  tenderness,  which  now,  ev'n  now. 
Seems  floating  thro'  my  sonl,  were  music  taken 
For  ever  from  this  world,— oh  I  thus  forsaken. 
Could  I  bear  on  ?— thou  liv'st,  thou  liv'st,  thou  'rt 

mine  I 

With  this  glad  thought  I  make  my  heart  a  shrine, 
And  by  the  lamp  which  quenchless  there  shall  burn, 
Sit,  a  lone  watcher  for  the  day's  return. 

IV. 
And  lot  the  joy  that  cometh  with  the  morning, 

Brightly  victorious  o'er  the  hours  of  care  I 
I  have  not  watch'd  in  vain,  serenely  scorning 

The  wild  and  busy  whisper*  of  despair  1 
(155) 


156 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thou  hast  sent  tidings,  as  of  heaven. — I  wait 

The  hour,  the  sign,  for  blessed  flight  to  thee. 
Oh  !  for  the  skylark's  wing  that  seeks  its  mate 

As  a  star  shoots! — but  on  the  breezy  sea 
We  shall  meet  soon.— To  think  of  such  an  hour 

Will  not  my  heart,  o'erburden'd  by  its  bliss, 
Faint  and  give  way  within  me,  as  a  flower 

Borne  down  and  perishing  by  noontide's  kiss? 
Vet  shall  I  fear  that  lot?— the  perfect  rest, 
The  full  deep  joy  of  dying  on  thy  breast. 
After  long-suffering  won  ?    So  rich  a  close 
Too  seldom  crowns  with  peace  affection's  woes. 
Sunset !— I  tell  each  moment— from  the  skies 

The  last  red  splendour  floats  along  my  wall. 
Like  a  king's  banner!— Now  it  melts,  it  dies! 

I  see  one  star— I  hear — 'twas  not  the  call, 
Th'  expected  voice ;  my  quick  heart  throbb'd  too 

soon. 

I  must  keep  vigil  till  yon  rising  moon 
Shower  down  less  golden  light.  Beneath  her  beam 
Thro'  my  lone  lattice  pour'd,  I  sit  and  dream 
Of  summer  lands  afar,  where  holy  love, 
Under  the  vine,  or  in  the  citron-grove, 
May  breathe  from  terror. 

Now  the  night  grows  deep, 
And  silent  as  its  clouds,  and  full  of  sleep. 
I  hear  my  veins  beat.— Hark  I  a  bell's  slow  chime. 
My  heart  strikes  with  it.— Yet  again— 'tis  time! 
A  step ! — a  voice ! — or  but  a  rising  breeze  ? 
Hark  I — baste  I — I  come,  to  meet  tbee  on  the  seas. 

VI. 

Now  never  more,  oh !  never,  in  the  worth 
Of  its  pure  cause,  let  sorrowing  love  on  earth 
Trust  fondly— never  more  I— the  hope  is  crush'd 
That  lit  my  life,  the  voice  within  me  hush'd 
That  spoke  sweet  oracles:  and  I  return 
To  lay  my  youth,  as  in  a  burial-urn. 
Where  sunshine  may  not  find  it.— All  is  lost) 
No  tempest  met  o  r  barks— no  billow  toss'd ; 
Yet  were  they  sever'd,  ev'n  as  we  must  be, 
That  so  have  loved,  so  striven  our  hearts  to  free 
From  their  close-coiling  fate!    In  vain — in  vain  I 
The  dark  links  meet,  and  clasp  themselves  again, 
And  press  out  life.— Upon  the  deck  I  stood, 
And  a  white  sail  came  gliding  o'er  the  flood, 
Like  some  proud  bird  of  ocean  ;  then  mine  eye 
Strain'd  out,  one  moment  earlier  to  descry 
The  form  it  ached  for,  and  the  bark's  career 
Seem'd  slow  to  that  fond  yearning:  It  drew  near 
Fraught  with  our  foes  I— What  boots  it  to  recall 
The  strife,  the  tears?    Once  more  a  prison-wall 
Shuts  the  green  hills  and  woodlands  from  my  sight 
And  joyous  glance  of  waters  to  the  light, 
And  thee,  my  Seymour,  thee ! 

I  will  not  sink! 

Thou,  thou  hast  rent  the  heavy  chain  that  bound 

thee ; 
And  this  shall  be  my  strength— the  joy  to  think 

That  thou  may'st  wander  with  heaven's  breath 

around  thee ; 

And  all  the  laughing  sky !    This  thought  shall  yet 
Shine  o'er  my  heart,  a  radiant  amulet, 
Guarding  it  from  despair.    Thy  bonds  are  broken, 
And  unto  me,  I  know,  thy  true  love's  token 
Shall  one  day  be  deliverance,  though  the  years 

ie  dim  between,  o'erhung  with  mists  of  tears. 

VII. 
My  friend,  my  friend  I  where  art  thou  7    Day  by 

day, 

Gliding,  like  some  dark  mournful  stream,  away, 

My  silent  youth  flows  from  me.  Spring,  the  while, 

Comes  and  rains  beauty  on  the  kindling  boughs 

Round  hall  and  hamlet;  Summer,  with  her  smile, 

Fills  the  green  forest ;— young  hearts  breathe 

their  vows ; 

Brothers,  long  parted,  meet ;  fair  children  rise 
Round  the  glad  board :  Hope  laughs  from  loving 

eyes: 

All  this  is  in  the  world  1— These  joys  lie  sown, 
Th*  d»w  of  ever>  path— Ou  one  alo> 


Their  freshness  may  not  fall— the  stricken  deer 
Dying  of  thirst  with  all  the  waters  near. 

VIII. 
Ye  are  from  dingle  and  fresh  glade,  ye  flowers 

By  some  kind  hand  to  cheer  my  dungeon  sent ; 

O'er  you  the  oak  shed  down  the  summer  showers. 

And  the  lark's  nest  was  where  your  bright  cups 

bent, 

Quivering  to  breeze  and  rain-drop,  like  the  sheen 
Of  twilight  stars.  On  you  Heaven's  eye  hath  been, 
Thro'  the  leaves,  pouring  its  dark  sultry  blue 
Into  your  glowing  hearts;  the  bee  to  you 
Hath  murnmr'd,  and  the  rill.— My  soul  grows  faint 
With  passionate  yearning,  as  its  quick  dreams 

paint 
Your  haunts  by  dell  and  stream,— the  green,  thi 

free, 
The  full  of  all  sweet  sound,— the  shut  from  me  I 

IX. 

There  went  a  swift  bird  singing  past  my  cell — 

O  Love  and  Freedom  I  ye  are  lovely  things  I 

With  you  the  peasant  on  the  hills  may  dwell, 

And  by  the  streams;  but  I — the  blood  of  kings, 
A  proud,  unmingling  river,  thro'  my  veins 
Flows  in  lone  brightness, — and  its  gifts  are  chains!   \ 
Kings!— 1  had  silent  visions  of  deep  bliss, 
Leaving  their  thrones  far  distant,  and  for  this 
I  am  cast  under  their  triumphal  car, 
An  insect  to  be  crush'd.— Oh  I  Heaven  is  far, — 
Earth  pitiless  I 

Dost  thou  forget  me,  Seymour?    I  am  proved 

So  long,  so  sternly  I  Seymour,  my  beloved  I 

There  are  such  tales  of  holy  marvels  done 

By  strong  affection,  of  deliverance  won 

Thro'  its  prevailing  power!  Are  these  things  told 

Till  the  young  weep  with  rapture,  and  the  old 

Wonder,  yet  dare  not  doubt, — and  thou,  oh !  thou, 

Dost  thou  forget  me  in  my  hope's  decay  ? — 
Thou  canst  not! — thro'  the  silent  night,  ev'n  now 

I,  that  need  prayer  so  much,  wake  and  pray 
Still  first  for  thee.— Oh!  gentle,  gentle  friend  ! 
How  shall  I  bear  this  anguish  to  the  end? 

Aid ! — comes  there  yet  no  aid  ? — the  voice  of  blood 
Passes  Heaven's  gate,  ev'n  ere  the  crimson  flood 
Sinks  thro'  the  greensward  1— is  there  not  a  cry 
From  the  wrung  heart,  of  power,  thro'  agony, 
To  pierce  the  clouds?    Hear,  Mercy!  hear  me 

None 

That  bleed  and  weep  beneath  the  smiling  sun, 
Have  heavier  cause ! — yet  hear  I — my  soul  grows 

dark— 

Who  hears  the  last  shriek  from  the  sinking  bark, 
On  the  mid  seas,  and  with  the  storm  alone, 
And  bearing  to  t**'  abyss,  unseen,  unknown, 
Its  freight  of  human  hearts  ? — th'  o'ennaslering 

wave! 
Who  shall  tell  how  it  rush'd — and  none  to  save  ? 

Thou  hast  forsaken  me !    I  feel,  I  know, 
There  would  be  rescue  if  this  were  not  so. 
Thou'rt  at  the  chase,  thou'rt  at  the  festive  board, 
Thou  'rt  where  the  red  wine  free  and  high  is  pour'd, 
Thou  'rt  where  the  dancers  meet ! — a  magic  glaes 
Is  set  wilhin  my  soul,  and  proud  shapes  pass, 
Flushing  it  o'er  with  pomp  from  bower  and  hall ; — 
I  see  one  shadow,  stateliest  there  of  all, — 
Thine  I — What  dost  thou  amidst  the  bright  and  fair. 
Whispering  light  words,  and  mocking  my  despair  ? 
It  is  not  well  of  thee ! — my  love  was  more 
Than  fiery  song  may  breathe,  deep  thought  explore, 
And  there  thou  smilest,  while  my  heart  is  dying, 
With  all  its  blighted  hopes  around  it  lying; 
Ev'n  thou,  on  whom  they  bung  their  last  green 

leaf- 
Yet  smile,  smile  on !  too  bright  art  thou  for  grief- 

Death! — what,  is  death  a  lock'd  and  treasured  thing 
Guarded  by  swords  of  fire  7(2)  a  hidden  spring, 
A  fabled  fruit,  that  I  should  thus  endure, 
As  if  the  world  within  me  held  no  cure? 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


157 


Wherefore  not   spread  free  wings — Heaven,  Hea- 
ven !  con.rol 

These  thoughts— they  rush— I  look  into  my  soul 
As  down  a  gulf,  and  tremble  at  th' array 
Of  fierce  forms  crowding  it!  Give  strength  to  pray, 
So  shall  their  dark  host  pass. 

The  storm  is  still'd. 

Father  in  Heaven  !  Thou,  only  thou,  canst  sound 
The  heart's  great  deep,  with  floiids  of  anguish  fill'd, 

For  human  line  too  fearfully  profound. 
Therefore,  forgive,  my  Father!  if  Thy  child, 
Rock'd  on  its  heaving  darkness,  hath  grown  wild, 
And  sinn'd  in  her  despair!  It  well  may  be. 
That  Thou  wouldst  load  my  spirit  back  to  Thee, 
By  the  crnsh'd  hope  too  long  on  this  world  pour'd, 
The  stricken  love  which  hath  perchance  ador'd 
r  A  mortal  in  Thy  place !  Now  let  me  strive 
[  With  Thy  strong  arm  no  more  I  Forgive,  forgive  1 
I  Take  me  to  peace ! 

And  peace  at  last  is  nieh. 

A  sign  is  on  my  brow,  a  token  sent 
Th'o'erwearied  dust,  from  home :  no  breeze  flits  by. 

But  calls  me  with  a  strange  sweet  whisper,  blent 
Of  many  mysteries. 

Hark!  the  warning  ton* 
Deepens — its  word  is  Death.     Alone,  alone, 
And  sad  in  youth,  but  chasten'd,  I  depart. 
Bowing  to  heaven.    Yet,  yet  my  woman's  heart 
Shall  wake  a  spirit  and  a  power  to  bless, 
Ev'n  in  this  hour's  o'ershadowing  tearfulness, 
Thee,  its  first  love! — oh!  tender  still,  and  true! 
Be  it  forgotten  if  mine  anguish  threw 
Drops  from  its  bitter  fountain  on  thy  name, 
Though  but  a  moment. 

Now,  with  fainting  frame 
With  soul  just  lingering  on  the  flight  begun, 
I'o  hind  for  thee  its  last  dim  thoughts  in  one, 
I  bless  thee  !  Peace  be  on  thy  noble  head, 
Years  of  bright  fame,  when  I  am  with  the  dead  I 
!  bid  this  prayer  survive  me,  and  retain 
(ts  might,  acnin  to  bless  thee,  and  again  I 
Thou  hast  been  gather'd  into  my  dark  fate 
Too  much ;  too  long,  for  my  sake,  desolate 
Hath  been  thine  exiled  youth ;  but  now  take  back, 
From  dying  hands,  thy  freedom,  and  re-track 
(After  a  feyv  kind  tears  for  her  whose  days 
Went  out  in  dreams  of  thee)  the  sunny  ways 
Of  hope,  and  find  thou  happiness!  Yet  send, 
Ev'n  then,  in  silent  hours,  a  thought,  dear  friend! 
Down  to  my  voiceless  chamber ;  for  thy  love 
Hath  been  to  me  all  gifts  of  earth  above, 
Though  bought  with  burning  tears!  It  is  the  sting 
Of  death  to  leave  that  vainly-precious  thing 
In  this  cold  world  1  What  were  it  then,  if  thou, 
With  thy  fond  eyes,  wort  gazing  on  me  now? 
Too  keen  a  pang  !— Farewell !  and  yet  once  more, 
Farewell!— the  passion  of  long  years  I  pour 
Into  that  word  :  thou  hear'st  not, — but  the  woe 
And  fervour  of  its  tones  may  one  day  flow 
To  thy  heart's  holy  place;  there  let  them  dwell— 
We  shall  o'ersweep  the  grave  to  meet — Farewell  I 


BRIDE    OF    THE    GREEK    ISLE.* 


Far!— I'm  *  Greek,  and  how  ihould  I  fear  death  ? 
A  alave,  and  wherefore  should  I  dread  my  freedom  > 

*  *  •  •  • 

I  will  not  lire  degraded. 

Sardanapalia. 


COMK  from  the  woods  with  the  citron-flowers, 
Come  with  your  lyres  for  the  festal  hours, 
Maids  of  bright  Scio  1  They  came,  and  the  breeze 
Bore  their  sweet  songs  o'er  the  Grecian  seas  ;— 
They  came,  and  Eudnra  stood  robed  and  crown'd, 
The  bride  of  the  morn,  with  her  train  around. 

*  Founded  on  a  circumstance  related  in  the  Second  Seriea  of  the 

£»"""!!?  „"•'  I-1"T",T-  and  fo™inS  P»n  of  a  picture  in  the 
"  Painted  ZftOfrapAy"  (here  described. 


Jewels  flash'd  out  from  her  braided  hair, 
Like  starry  dews  'midst  the  roses  there  ; 
Pearls  on  her  bosom  quivering  shone, 
Heaved  by  her  heart  through  its  golden  zone; 
But  a  brow,  as  those  gems  of  the  ocean  pale. 
Gleam'd  from  beneath  her  transparent  veil, 
Changeful  arid  faint  was  her  fair  cheek's  hue. 
Though  clear  as  a  flower  which  the  light  looks 

through ; 

And  the  glance  of  her  dark  resplendent  eye. 
For  the  aspect  of  woman  at  times  too  high, 
Lay  floating  in  mists,  which  the  troubled  stream 
Of  the  soul  sent  up  o'er  its  fervid  beam. 

She  look'd  on  the  vine  at  her  father's  door. 

Like  one  that  is  leaving  his  native  shore; 

She  hung  o'er  the  myrtle  once  call'd  her  own, 

As  it  greenly  waved  by  the  threshold  stone; 

She  turn'd — and  her  mother's  gaze  brought  back 

Each  hue  of  her  childhood's  faded  track. 

Oh !  hush  the  song,  and  let  her  tears 

Flow  to  the  dream  of  her  early  years! 

Holy  and  pure  are  the  drops  that  fall 

When  the  young  bride  goes  from  her  father's  hall  : 

She  goes  unto  love  yet  untried  and  new. 

She  parts  from  love  which  hath  still  been  true 

Mute  be  the  song  and  the  choral  strain, 

Till  her  heart's  deep  well-spring  is  clear  again  I 

She  wept  on  her  mother's  faithful  breast, 

Like  a  habe  that  sobs  itself  to  rest ; 

She  wept — yet  laid  her  hand  awhile 

In  his  that  waited  her  dawning  smile. 

Her  soul's  affianced,  nor  cherish'd  less 

For  the  gush  of  nature's  tenderness ! 

She  lifted  her  graceful  head  at  last — 

The  choking  swell  of  her  heart  was  past; 

And  her  lovely  thoughts  from  their  cells  found  waj 

In  the  sudden  flow  of  a  plaintive  lay. (3) 

THE  BRIDE'S  FAREWELL. 

WHY  do  I  weep?— to  leave  the  vine 
Whose  clusters  o'er  me  bend, — 

The  myrtle — yet,  oh!  call  it  mine  I—- 
The flowers  I  loved  to  tend. 

A  thousand  thoughts  of  all  things  dear, 
Like  shadows  o'er  me  sweep, 

I  leave  my  sunny  childhood  here, 
Ob,  therefore  let  me  weep  1 

I  leave  thee,  sister!  we  have  play'd 

Through  many  a  joyous  hour. 
Where  the  silvery  green  of  the  olive  shade 

Hung  dim  over  fount  and  bower. 
Yes,  thou  and  I,  by  stream,  by  shore, 

In  song,  in  prayer,  in  sleep, 
Have  been  as  we  may  be  no  more — 

Kind  sister,  let  me  weepl 

I  leave  thee  father  I    Eve's  bright  moon 

Must  now  light  other  feet, 
With  the  gather'd  grapes,  and  the  lyre  in  tune, 

Thy  homeward  step  to  greet 
Thou  in  whose  voice,  to  bless  thy  child 

Lay  tones  of  love  so  deep, 
Whose  eye  o'er  all  my  youth  hath  smiled— 

I  leave  thee  !  let  me  weepl 

Mother  1 1  leave  thee  !  on  thy  breast, 

Pouring  out  joy  and  woe, 
I  have  found  that  holy  place  of  rest 

Still  changeless,— yet  I  got 
Lips,  that  have  lull'd  me  with  your  strain, 

Eyes,  that  have  watch'd  my  sleep ! 
Will  earth  give  love  like  yours  again? 

Sweet  mother  I  let  me  weepl 


And  like  a  slight  young  tree,  that  throws 
The  weight  of  rain  from  its  drooping  bough*, 


158 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Once  more  she  wept.    But  a  changeful  thing 
Is  the  human  heart,  as  a  mountain  spring, 
That  works  its  way,  through  the  torrent's  foam. 
To  the  bright  pool  near  it,  the  lily's  hornet 
It  is  well  I — the  cloud,  on  her  soul  that  lay. 
Hath  melted  in  glittering  drops  away. 
Wake  again,  mingle,  sweet  flute  and  lyre  I 
She  turns  to  her  lover,  she  leaves  her  sire. 
Mother  I  on  earth  it  must  still  be  so, 
Thou  rearest  the  lovely  to  see  them  go! 

They  are  moving  onward,  the  bridal  throng, 
Ye  may  track  their  way  by  the  swells  of  song ; 
Ye  may  catch  thro'  the  foliage  their  white  robes 

gleam, 

Like  a  swan  'midst  the  reeds  of  a  shadowy  stream 
Their  arms  bear  up  garlands,  their  gliding  tread 
Is  over  the  deep-vein'd  violet's  bed; 
They  have  light  leaves  around  them,  blue  skies 

above, 
An  arch  for  the  triumph  of  youth  and  love  I 

II. 

Still  and  sweet  was  the  home  that  stood 
In  the  flowering  depths  of  a  Grecian  wood, 
With  the  soft  green  light  o'er  its  low  roof  spread 
As  if  from  the  glow  of  an  emerald  shed, 
Pouring  through  lime-leaves  that  mingled  on  high, 
Asleep  in  the  silence  of  noon's  clear  sky 
Citrons  amidst  their  dark  foliage  filow'd, 
Making  a  gleam  round  the  lone  abode ; 
Laurels  o'erhung  it.  whose  faintest  shiver 
Scatter'd  out  rays  like  a  glancing  river; 
Stars  of  the  jasmine  its  pillars  crown'd, 
Vine-stalks  its  lattice  and  walls  had  bound, 
And  brightly  before  it  a  fountain's  play 
Flung  showers  through  a  thicket  of  glossy  bay, 
To  a  cypress  which  rose  in  that  flashing  rain, 
Like  one  tall  shaft  of  some  fallen  fane. 

And  thither  lanthis  had  brought  his  bride, 

And  the  guests  were  met  by  that  fountain-tide; 

They  lifted  the  veil  from  Eudora's  face, 

It  smiled  out  softly  in  pensive  grace, 

With  lips  of  love,  and  a  brow  serene, 

Meet  for  the  soul  of  the  deep  wood-scene.—— 

Bring  wine,  bring  odours  I — the  board  is  spread — 

Bring  roses !  a  chaplet  for  every  head  1 

The  wine-cups  foam'd,  and  the  rose  was  shower'd 

On  the  young  and  fair  from  the  world  embower'd, 

The  sun  look'd  not  on  them  in  that  sweet  shade, 

The  winds  amid  scented  boughs  were  laid  ; 

But  there  came  by  fits,  through  some  wavy  tree, 

A  sound  and  a  gleam  of  the  moaning  sea. 

Hush !  be  still  1— was  that  no  more 
Than  the  murmur  from  the  shore? 
Silence  I — did  thick  rain-drops  beat 
On  the  grass  like  trampling  feet  ?— 
Fling  down  the  goblet,  and  draw  the  sword  I 
The  groves  are  fill'd  with  a  pirate-horde  I 
Through  the  dim  olives  their  sabres  shine;— 
Now  must  the  red  blood  stream  for  wine  I 

The  youths  from  the  banquet  to  battle  sprang. 
The  woods  with  the  shriek  of  the  maidens  rang; 
Under  the  golden-fruited  boughs 
There  were   flashing   poniards,   and  darkening 

brows, 

Footsteps,  o'er  garland  and  lyre  that  fled ; 
And  the  dying  soon  on  a  greensward  bed. 

Eudora,  Eudora  t  thou  dost  not  fly ! —  , 

She  saw  but  lanthis  before  her  lie, 

With  the  blood  from  his  breast  in  a  gushing  flow, 

Like  a  child's  large  tears  in  its  hour  of  woe. 

And  a  gathering  film  in  his  lifted  eye, 

That  sought  his  young  bride  out  mournfully. — 

She  knelt  down  beside  him,  her  arms  she  wound, 

Like  tendrils,  his  drooping  neck  around, 

As  if  the  passion  of  that  fond  grasp 

Might  chain  in  life  with  its  ivy-clasp. 

But  they  tore  her  thence  in  her  wild  despair, 
The  sea's  fierce  rovers— they  left  him  there ; 


They  left  to  the  fountain  a  dark-red  vein, 
And  on  the  wet  violets  a  pile  of  slain, 
And  a  hush  of  fear  through  the  summer-grove  — 
So  closed  the  triumph  of  youth  and  love  I 

III. 

Gloomy  lay  the  shore  that  night. 

When  the  moon,  with  sleeping  iiglC, 

Bathed  each  purple  Sciote  hill, — 

Gloomy  lay  the  shore,  and  still. 

O'er  the  wave  no  gay  guitar 

Sent  its  floating  music  far; 

No  glad  sound  of  dancing  feet 

Woke,  the  starry  hours  to  greet 

But  a  voice  of  mortal  woe. 

In  its  changes  wild  or  low, 

Through  the  midnight's  blue  repose, 

From  the  sea-beat  rocks  arose, 

As  Eudora's  mother  stood 

Gazing  o'er  th'  Egean  flood, 

With  a  flx'd  and  straining  eye — 

Oh  I  was  the  spoilers'  vessel  nigh  ? 

Yes  !  there,  becalm'd  in  silent  sleep, 

Dark  and  alone  on  a  breathless  deep, 

On  a  sea  of  molten  silver  dark, 

Brooding  it  frown'd,  that  evil  bark  I 

There  its  broad  pennon  a  shadow  cast, 

Moveless  and  black  from  the  tall  still  mast. 

And  the  heavy  sound  of  its  flapping  sail, 

Idly  and  vainly  woo'd  the  gale. 

Hush'd  was  all  else— had  ocean's  breast 

Rock'd  e'en  Eudora  that  hour  to  rest  ? 

To  rest  ?— the  waves  tremble !— what  piercing  try 

Bursts  from  the  heart  of  the  ship  on  high  ? 

What  light  through  the  heavens,  in  a  sudden  spire 

Shoots  from  the  deck  up  ?    Fire !  't  is  fire ! 

There  are  wild  forms  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

Seen  darkly  clear  on  that  lurid  glow; 

There  are  shout,  and  signal-gun,  and  call, 

And  the  dashing  of  water,— but  fruitless  all  I 

Man  may  not  fetter,  nor  ocean  tame 

The  might  and  wrath  of  the  rushing  flame  ! 

It  bath  twined  the  mast  like  a  glittering  snake 

That  coils  up  a  tree  from  a  dusky  brake  ; 

It  hath  touch'd  the  sails,  and  their  canvas  rolls 

Away  from  its  breath  into  shrivell'd  scrolls  ; 

It  hath  taken  a  flag's  high  place  in  air, 

And  redden'd  the  stars  with  its  wavy  glare, 

And  sent  out  bright  arrows,  and  soar'd  in  glee, 

To  a  burning  mount  'midst  the  moonlit  sea. 

The  swimmers  are  plunging  from  stern  and  prow— 

fcudora,  Eudora  1  where,  where  art  thou  ? 

The  slave  and  his  master  alike  are  gone.— 

Mother !  who  stands  on  the  deck  alone  ? 

The  child  of  thy  bosom !— and  lo!  a  brand 

Blazing  up  high  in  her  lifted  hand  I 

And  her  veil  flung  back,  and  her  free  dark  hair 

Sway'd  by  the  flames  as  they  rock  and  flare, 

And  her  fragile  form  to  its  loftiest  height 

Dilated,  as  if  by  the  spirit's  might, 

And  her  eye  with  an  eagle-gladness  fraught,— 

On  !  could  this  work  be  of  woman  wrought? 

Yes  1  'twas  her  deed  !— by  that  haughty  smile, 

It  was  her's  1— She  hath  kindled  her  funeral  pile ! 

Never  might  shame  on  that  bright  head  be 

Her  blood  was  the  Greek's,  and  hath  made  her  free. 

Proudly  she  stands,  like  an  Indian  bride 

Jn  the  pyre  with  the  holy  dead  beside ; 

But  a  shriek  from  her  mother  hath  caught  her  ear 

As  the  flames  to  her  marriage-robe  draw  near 

And  starting,  she  spreads  her  pale  arms  in  vain. 

lo  the  form  they  must  never  enfold  again. 

)ne  moment  more,  and  her  hands  are  elasp'd, 
'alien  is  the  torch  they  had  wildly  grasp'd, 
Her  sinking  knee  unto  Heaven  is  bow'd, 
And  her  last  look  raised  through  the  smoke's  dim 

shroud, 

And  her  lips  as  in  prayer  for  her  pardon  move— 
<ow  the  night  gathers  o'er  youth  and  love  I* 


"  *'i''hw  •  *  we" 

nthly  Magatint, 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


159 


THE    SWITZER  8    WIFE. 


Werner  Smuffacher,  one  of  the  three  eonrederatei  of 
the  field  of  Grutli,  had  been  alarmed  by  the  envy  with 
which  the  Austrian  Bailiff,  Landenberg,  had  noticed  the 
appearance  of  wealth  and  comfort  which  distinguished 
his  dwelling.  It  was  not,  however,  until  roused  by  the 
entreaties  of  his  wife,  a  woman  who  seems  to  have  been 
of  an  heroic  spirit,  that  he  was  induced  to  deliberate 
with  his  friends  upon  the  measures  by  which  Switzerland 
was  finally  delivered. 


Nor  look  nor  tons  raraleth  aught 
S*Te  woman's  qnietee*  of  thonjht 
And  yet  around  her  ii  >  light 
Of  inward  majetty  and  might       M.  J.  J. 
•  •••• 

Wcr  with  ein  hen  an  iclnen  Buten  drnekt, 
Der  kann  tar  herd  and  hot  mil  freaden  feehtnu 


It  was  the  time  when  children  bound  to  meet 
Their  father's  homeward  step  from  field  or  hill, 

And  when  the  herd's  returning  bells  are  sweet 
In  the  Swiss  valleys,  and  the  lakes  grow  still, 

And  the  last  note  of  that  wild  horn  swells  by, 

Which  haunts  the  exile's  heart  with  melody. 

And  lovely  smiled  full  many  an  Alpine  homo, 
Touch'd  with  the  crimson  of  the  dying  hour, 

Which  lit  its  low  roof  by  the  torrent's  foam, 
And  pierced  its  lattice  through  the  vine-hung 
bower; 

But  one,  the  loveliest  o'er  the  land  that  rose. 

Then  first  look'd  mournful  in  its  green  repose. 

For  Werner  sat  beneath  the  linden-tree, 
That  sent  its  lulling  whispers  through  his  door 

Ev'n  as  man  sits  whose  heart  alone  would  be 
With  some  deep  care,  and  thus  can  find  no  more 

Th'  accustom'd  joy  in  all  which  evening  brings, 

Gathering  a  household  with  her  quiet  wings. 

His  wife  stood  hush'd  before  him.— sad,  yet  mild 
In  her  beseeching  mien  ;— he  mnrk'd  it  not. 

The  silvery  laughter  of  his  bright-hair'd  child 
Rang  from  the  greensward  round  the  sheltered 
spot, 

But  seem'd  unheard ;  until  at  last  the  boy 

Raised  from  his  heap'd-up  flowers  a  glance  of  joy, 

And  met  his  father's  face :  but  then  a  change 
Pass'd  swiftly  o'er  the  brow  of  infant  glee, 

And  a  quick  sense  of  something  dimly  strange 
Brought  him  from  play  to  stand  beside  the  knee 

So  often  climb'd,  and  lift  his  loving  eyes 

That  shone  through  clouds  of  sorrowful  surprise. 

Then  the  proud  bosom  of  the  strong  man  shook ; 

But  tenderly  his  babe's  fair  mother  laid 
Her  hand  on  his,  and  with  a  pleading  look, 
Thro'  tears  half  quivering,  o'er  him  bent,  and 

said, 
•What  grief,  dear  friend,  bath  made  thy  heart  its 

prey. 
That  thou  shouldst  turn  thee  from  our  love  away  1 

"It  is  too  sad  to  see  thee  thus,  my  friend  1 
Mark'st  thou  the  wonder  on  thy  boy's  fair  brow, 

Missing  the  smile  from  thine  1    Oh  I  cheer  thee  1 

bend 
To  his  soft  arms,  unseal  thy  thoughts  e'en  now  I 

Thou  dost  not  kindly  to  withhold  the  share 

Of  tried  affection  in  thy  secret  care." 

He  look'd  up  into  that  sweet  earnest  face, 

But  sternly,  mournfully  :  not  yet  the  band 
Was  looften'd  from  his  soul ;  its  inmost  place 


Not  yet  unveil'd  oy  love's  o'ermaslering  hand. 
"  Speak  low  1"  he  cried,  and  pointed  where  on  high 
The  white  Alps  glitter'd  through  the  solemn  sky: 

"We  must  speak  low  amidst  our  ancient  hills 
And  their  free  torrents;  for  the  days  are  come 

When  tyranny  lies  couch'd  by  forest-rills. 
And  meets  the  shepherd  in  his  mountain-home 

Go,  pour  the  wine  of  our  own  grapes  in  fear, 

Keep  silence  by  the  hearth  1  its  foes  are  near. 

"The  envy  of  the  oppressor's  eye  hath  been 

Upon  my  heritage.    I  sit  to-night 
Under  my  household  tree,  if  not  serene, 

Yet  with  the  faces  best-beloved  in  sight : 
To-morrow  eve  may  find  me  chain'd,  and  thee — 
How  can  I  bear  the  boy's  young  smiles  to  see  ?" 

The  bright  blood  left  that  youthful  mother's  cheek; 

Back  on  the  linden-stem  she  lean'd  her  form. 
And  her  lip  trembled,  as  it  strove  to  speak, 

Like  a  frail  harp-string,  shaken  by  the  storm. 
'Twns  but  a  moment,  and  the  faintness  pass'd, 
And  the  free  Alpine  spirit  woke  at  last. 

And  she,  that  ever  through  her  home  had  moved 
With  the  meek  thoughtfulness  and  quiet  smile 

Of  woman,  calmly  loving  and  beloved, 
And  timid  in  her  happiness  the  while, 

Stood  brightly  forth,  and  steadfastly,  that  hour. 

Her  clear  glance  kindling  into  sudden  power 

Ay,  pale  she  stood,  but  with  an  eye  of  light, 
And  took  her  fair  child  to  her  holy  breast, 

And  lifted  her  soft  voice,  that  gather'd  might 
As  it  found  language :— "Are  we  thus  oppress'd  ? 

Then  must  we  rise  upon  our  mountain-sod, 

And  man  must  arm,  and  woman  call  on  Godt 

"I  know  what  thou  wouldst  do,— and  be  it  done  I 

Thy  soul  is  darken'd  with  its  fears  for  me. 
Trust  me  to  Heaven,  my  husband  I— this,  thy  son. 

The  babe  whom  I  have  borne  thee,  must  be  freel 
And  the  sweet  memory  of  our  pleasant  hearth 
May  well  give  strength— if  aught  be  strong  on 

earth. 
"Thou  hast  been  brooding  o'er  the  silent  dread 

Of  my  desponding  tears ;  now  lift  once  more, 
My  hunter  of  the  hills !  thy  stately  head, 

And  let  thine  eagle  glance  my  joy  restore  ! 
I  can  bear  all,  but  seeing  thee  subdued, — 
Take  to  thee  back  thine  own  undaunted  mood. 

"Go  forth  beside  the  waters,  and  along 
The  chamois-paths,  and  through  the  forests  go; 

And  tell,  in  burning  words,  thy  tale  of  wrong 
To  the  brave  hearts  that  'midst  the  hamlets  glow 

God  shall  be  with  thee,  my  beloved !— Away  I 
less  but  thy  child,  and  leave  me,— I  can  pray  I" 

He  sprang  up  like  a  warrior-youth  awaking 
To  clarion-sounds  upon  the  ringing  air; 

He  caught  her  to  his  breast,  while  proud  tears 

breaking 
Prom  his  dark  eyes,  fell  o'er  her  braided  hair,— 

And  "Worthy  art  thou,"  was  his  joyous  cry, 

"  That  man  for  thee  should  gird  himself  to  die. 

"  My  bride,  my  wife,  the  mother  of  my  child  I 
Now  shall  thy  name  be  armour  to  my  heart; 

And  this  our  land,  by  chains  no  more  defiled. 
Be  taught  of  thee  to  choose  the  better  part  1 

I  go— thy  spirit  on  my  words  shall  dwell, 

Thy  gentle  voice  shall  stir  the  Alps— Farewell  1 

And  thus  they  parted,  by  the  quiet  lake, 
In  the  clear  starlight :  he,  the  strength  to  rouM 

Of  the  free  hills ;  she,  thoughtful  for  his  sake, 
To  rock  her  child  beneath  the  whispering  boughs 

dinging  its  blue,  half-curtain'd  eyes  to  sleep, 

With  a  low  hymn,  amidst  the  stillness  deep. 


160 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


PROPERZIA    ROSSI. 


Properzia  Rossi,  a  celebrated  female  sculptor  of  Bo- 
ogna,  possessed  also  of  talents  for  poetry  and  music, 
died  in  consequence  of  an  unrequited  attachment.— A 
painting  by  Ducis,  represents  her  showing  her  last  work, 
basso-relievo  of  Ariadne,  to  a  Roman  Knight,  the  ob- 
ect  of  her  affection,  who  regards  it  with  indifference. 


Tell  me  no  more,  no  more 

Of  my  soul's  lofty  gifts !    Are  they  not  vain 
To  quench  ill  haunting  thirrt  for  happiness  ? 
Have  I  not  loved,  and  striven,  and  fail'd  to  bind 
One  true  heart  unto  me,  whereon  my  own 
Might  find  a  resting-place,  a  home  for  all 
Its  burden  of  affection!  ?    I  depart, 
Unknown,  tho'  Fame  goes  with  me  ;  I  must  Ieiv» 
The  earth  unknown.    Yet  it  may  be  that  death 
Shall  give  my  name  a  power  to  win  such  tear* 
As  would  have  made  life  precious. 


ONE  dream  of  passion  and  of  beauty  morel 
And  in  its  bright  fulfilment  let  me  pour 
My  soul  away !    Let  earth  retain  a  trace 
Of  that  which  lit  my  being,  tho'  its  race 
Might  have  been  loftier  far.— Yet  one  more  dream! 
From  my  deep  spirit  one  victorious  gleam 
Ere  I  depart  1    For  thee  alone,  for  thee  ! 
May  this  last  work,  this  farewell  triumph  be, 
Thou, loved  so  vainly!    I  would  leave  enshrine-l 
Something  immortal  of  my  heart  and  mind, 
That  yet  may  speak  to  thee  when  I  am  gone. 
Shaking  thine  inmost  bosom  with  a  tone 
Of  lost  affection  ; — something  that  may  prove 
What  she  hath  been,  whose  melancholy  love 
On  thee  was  lavish'd;  silent  pang  and  tear, 
And  fervent  song,  that  gush'd  when  none  were 

near, 

And  dream  by  night,  and  weary  thought  by  day, 
Stealing  the  brightness  from  her  life  away,— 

While  thou Awake  I  not  yet  within  me  die, 

Under  the  burden  and  the  agony 

Of  this  vain  tenderness, — my  spirit,  wakel 

Ev'n  for  thy  sorrowful  affection's  sake, 

Live  I  in  thy  work  breathe  out  I— that  he  may  yet 

Feeling  sad  mastery  there,  perchance  regret 

Thine  unrequited  gift. 

n 

It  comes,— the  power 

Within  me  born,  flows  back  ;  my  fruitless  dower 
That  could  not  win  me  love.    Yet  once  again 
I  greet  it  proudly,  with  its  rushing  train 
Of  glorious  images:— they  throng— they  press — 
A  sudden  joy  lights  up  my  loneliness, — 
I  shall  not  perish  all  I 

The  bright  work  grows 
Beneath  my  hand,  unfolding,  as  a  rose, 
Leaf  after  leaf,  to  beauty ;  line  by  line, 
I  fix  my  thought,  heart,  soul,  to  burn,  to  shine, 
Thro'  the  pale  marble's  veins.   It  grows — and  now 
I  give  my  own  life's  history  to  thy  brow, 
Forsaken  Ariadne  I  thou  shall  wear 
My  form,  my  lineaments ;  but  oh  I  more  fair, 
Touch'd  into  lovelier  being  by  the  glow 

Which  in  me  dwells,  as  by  the  summer-light 
All  things  are  glorified.    From  thee  my  woe 
Shall  yet  look  beautiful  to  meet  his  sight, 
When  I  am  pass'd  away.    Thou  ar'  the  mould 
Wherein  I  pour  the  fervent  thoughu,  th'  untold, 
The  self-consuming  !    Speak  to  him  of  me, 
Thou,  the  deserted  by  the  lonely  sea, 
With  the  soft  sadness  of  thine  earnest  eye, 
Speak  to  him.  lorn  one!  deeply,  mournfully, 
Of  all  my  love  and  grief!  Oh !  could  I  throw 
into  thy  frame  a  voice,  a  sweet,  and  low, 


And  thrilling  voice  of  song)  when  he  came  nigh, 
To  send  the  passion  of  its  melody 
Through  his  pierced  bosom — on  its  tones  to  bear 
My  life's  deep  feeling,  as  the  southern  air 
Wafts  the  faint  myrtle's  breath, — to  rise,  to  swell 
To  sink  away  in  accents  of  farewell, 
Winning  but  one,  one  gush  of  tears,  whose  flow 
Surely  my  parted  spirit  yet  might  know. 
If  love  be  strong  as  death 

III. 

Now  fair  thou  art, 

Thou  form,  whose  life  is  of  my  burning  heart  I 
Yet  all  the  vision  that  within  me  wrought, 

I  cannot  make  thee !  Ohl  I  might  have  given 
Birth  to  creations  of  far  nobler  thought, 

I  might  have  kindled,  with  the  fire  of  heaven. 
Things  not  of  such  as  die  I    But  I  have  been 
Too  much  alone ;  a  heart  whereon  to  lean. 
With  all  these  deep  affections,  that  o'erflow 
My  aching  soul,  and  find  no  shore  below  ; 
An  eye  to  be  my  star,  a  voice  to  bring 
Hope  o'er  my  path,  like  sounds  that  breathe  of 

spring, 

These  are  denied  me — dreamt  of  still  in  vain, — 
Therefore  my  brief  aspirings  from  the  chain, 
Are  ever  but  as  some  wild  fitful  song, 
Rising  triumphantly,  to  die  ere  long 
In  dirge-like  echoes. 

IV. 

Yet  the  world  will  see 
Little  of  this,  my  parting  work,  in  thee, 

Thou  shalt  have  fame!  Oh,  mockery!  give  the 

reed 

From  storms  a  shelter, — give  the  drooping  vine 
Something  round  which  its  tendrils  mayentwine, — 

Give  the  parch'd  flower  a  rain-drop,  and  the 

meed 

Of  love's  kind  words  to  woman  I  Worthless  fame  ! 
That  in  his  bosom  wins  not  for  my  name 
Th'  abiding-place  it  ask'd !    Yet  how  my  heart. 
In  its  own  fairy  world  of  song  and  art. 
Once  beat  for  praise!— Are  those  high  longings 

o'er? 

That  which  I  have  been  can  I  be  no  more  ?— 
Never,  oh!  never  more;  though  still  thy  sky 
Be  blue  as  then,  my  glorious  Italy  ! 
And  tho'  the  music,  whose  rich  breathings  fill 
Thine  air  with  soul,  be  wandering  past  me  still. 
And  tho'  the  mantle  of  thy  sunlight  streams. 
Unchanged  on  forms,  instinct  with  poet-dreams; 
Never,  oh!  never  morel    Where'er  I  move. 
The  shadow  of  this  broken-hearted  love 
Is  on  me  and  around!    Too  well  they  know, 

Whose  life  is  all  within,  too  soon  and  well. 
When  there  the  blight  hath  settled ; — but  I  go 

Under  the  silent  wings  of  peace  to  dwell ; 
From  the  slow  wasting,  from  the  lonely  pain. 
The  inward  burning  of  those  words — "  in  vain," 

Sear'd  on  the  heart— I  go.    'Twill  soon  be  past. 
Sunshine,  and  song,  and  bright  Italian  heaven. 

And  thou,  oh  !  thou,  on  whom  my  spirit  cast 
Unvalued  wealth, — who  know'st  not  what  uat 

given 

In  that  devotedness, — the  sad,  and  deep, 
And  unrepaid— farewell  I    If  I  could  weep 
Once,  only  once,  belov'd  one  I  on  thy  breast, 
Pouring  my  heart  forth  ere  I  sink  to  rest  I 
But  that  were  happiness,  and  unto  me 
Earth's  gift  is  fame.    Yet  I  was  form'd  to  be 
So  richly  blest !    With  thee  to  watch  the  sky. 
Speaking  not,  feeling  but  that  thou  wert  nigh; 
With  thee  to  listen,  while  the  tones  of  song 
Swept  ev'n  as  part  of  pur  sr-  jet  air  along, 
To  listen  silently  ; — with  t1  je  to  gaze 
On  forms,  the  deified  of  oV  <jn  days, 
This  had  been  Joy  enough; — and  hour  by  hour, 
From  its  glad  well-springs  drinking  life  and  power 
How  had  my  spirit  soar'd,  and  made  its  fame 

A  glory  for  thy  brow!— Dreams,  dreams!— the  fire 
Burns  faint  within  me.    Yet  I  leave  my  name- 
As  a  deep  thrill  may  linger  on  the  lyre 
When  its  full  chords  are  hush'd— awhile  to  live 
And  one  day  haply  in  thy  heart  revive 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


161 


4ad  thoughts  nf  me : — I  leave  it,  with  a  sound, 
A  spell  o'er  memory,  mournfully  profound, 
I  leave  it,  on  my  country's  air  to  dwell, — 
Bay  proudly  yet—"  'Ttcds  her's  wlu>  loved  me  taellF 


GERTRUDE, 

OR 
FIDELITY  TILL  DEATH. 


The  Baron  Von  der  Wart,  accused,  though  it  it 
believed  unjustly,  as  an  accomplice  in  the  assassination 
of  the  Emperor  Albert,  was  bound  alive  on  the  wheel, 
anil  attended  by  his  wife  Gertrude,  throughout  his  last 
agonizing  hours,  with  the  most  heroic  devotedness.  Her 
own  sufferings,  with  those  of  her  unfortunate  husband, 
are  most  afTectingly  described  in  a  letter  which  she  after- 
wards addressed  to  a  female  friend,  and  which  was  pub- 
lished some  years  ago,  at  Haarlem,  in  a  book  entitled 
Gertrude  Von  der  Wart,  or  Fidelity  unto  Death. 


Dark  lowers  our  fate, 

And  terrible  the  storm  that  gathers  o'er  us ; 
But  nothing,  till  that  latest  agony 
Which  severs  thee  from  nature,  «hall  unloose 
This  fix'd  and  sacral  hold.    In  thy  dark  prison-bom*. 
In  the  terrific  face  of  armed  law, 
Tea,  on  the  scaffold,  if  it  needi  most  be, 
I  never  will  forsake  thee. 

/panna  Batflit. 


HER  hands  were  clasp'd,  her  dark  eyes  raised, 

The  breeze  threw  back  her  liair ; 
Up  to  the  fearful  wheel  she  gazed — 

All  that  she  loved  was  there. 
The  night  was  round  her  clear  and  cold. 

The  holy  heaven  above, 
Its  pale  stars  watching  to  behold 

The  might  of  earthly  love. 

"  And  bid  me  not  depart,"  she  cried, 

"My  Rudolph,  say  not  so  I 
This  is  no  time  to  quit  thy  side, 

Peace,  peace  1  I  cannot  go. 
Hath  the  world  aught  for  me  to  fear, 

When  death  is  on  thy  brow? 
The  world  I  what  means  it  ? — mine  IB  hen— 

I  will  not  leave  thee  now. 

"  I  have  been  with  thee  in  thine  hour 

Of  glory  and  of  bliss ; 
Doubt  not  its  memory's  living  power 

To  strengthen  me  through  this  I 
And  t*iou,  mine  honour'd  love  and  true, 

Bear  on,  bear  nobly  on  I 
We  have  the  blessed  heaven  in  view, 

Whose  rest  shall  soon  be  won." 

And  were  not  these  high  words  to  flow 

From  woman's  breaking  heart  ? 
Through  all  that  night  of  bitterest  woe, 

She  bore  her  lofty  part ; 
But  oh  t  with  such  a  glazing  eye. 

With  such  a  curdling  cheek — 
Love,  love !  of  mortal  agony, 

Thou,  only  thou  shouldst  speak  I 

The  wind  rose  high,— but  with  It  rose 

Her  voice,  that  he  might  hear : 
Perchance  that  dark  hour  brought  repose 

To  happy  bosoms  near; 
While  she  sat  striving  with  despair 

Beside  his  tortured  form, 
And  pouring  her  deep  soul  In  prayer 

Forth  on  the  rushing  storm. 

11 


She  wiped  the  death-damps  from  his  brow, 

With  her  pale  hands  and  soft, 
Whose  touch  upon  the  lute-chords  low, 

Had  still'd  his  heart  so  oft. 
She  spread  her  mantle  o'er  his  breast, 

She  bathed  his  lips  with  dew, 
And  on  his  cheeks  such  kisses  press'd 

As  hope  and  joy  ne'er  knew. 

Oh  1  lovely  are  ye,  Love  and  Faith, 

Enduring  to  the  lust  1 
She  had  her  meed— one  smile  in  death— 

And  his  worn  spirit  pass'd. 
While  ev'n  as  o'er  a  martyr's  grave 

She  knelt  on  that  sad  spot, 
And,  weeping,  bless'd  the  God  who  gave 

Strength  to  forsake  it  not  I 


I  M  E  L  D  A. 


letimes 

The  young  forgot  the  lessons  they  had  learnt, 
And  loved  when  they  should  hate, — like  thee,  Imelda  !  (4) 

Italy,  a  Potin. 

Fana  la  bella  Donna,  e  par  che  donna. 

TCUH. 


We  have  the  myrtle's  breath  around  us  here. 

Amidst  the  fallen  pillars;— this  hath  been 
Some  Naiad's  fane  of  old.    How  brightly  clear, 

Flinging  a  vein  of  silver  o'er  the  scene, 
Up  through  the  shadowy  grass,  the  fountain  wells 

And  music  with  it,  gushing  from  beneath 
The  ivied  altar  1— that  sweet  murmur  tells 

The  rich  wild  flowers  no  tale  of  woe  or  death; 
Yet  once  the  wave  was  darken'd,  and  a  stain 
Lay  deep,  and  heavy  drops — but  not  of  rain- 
On  the  dim  violets  by  its  marble  bed. 
And  the  pale  shining  water-lily's  head. 
Sad  is  that  legend's  truth.— A  fair  girl  met 

One  whom  she  loved,  by  this  lone  temple's  spring, 
Just  as  the  sun  behind  the  pine-grove  set, 

And  eve's  low  voice  in  whispers  woke,  to  bring 
All  wanderers  home.  They  stood,  that  gentle  pair, 

With  the  blue  heaven  of  Italy  above, 
And  citron-odours  dying  on  the  air, 

And  light  leaves  trembling  round,  and  early  love 
Deep  in  each  breast. — What  reck'd  fAeir  souls  of 

strife 

Between  their  fathers  ?    Unto  them  young  life 
Spread  out  the  treasures  of  its  vernal  years  ; 
And  if  they  wept,  they  wept  far  other  tears 
Than  the  cold  world  wrings  forth.    They  stood, 

that  hour, 

Speaking  of  hope,  while  tree,  and  fount,  and  flower. 
And  star,  just  gleaming  thro'  the  cypress  boughs, 
Seem'd  holy  things,  as  records  of  their  vows. 

But  change  came  o^'erthe  scene.  A  hurrying  tread 

Broke  on  the  whispery  shades.     Imelda  knew 
The  footstep  of  her  brother's  wrath,  and  fled 

Up  where  the  cellars  make  yon  avenue 
Dim  with  green  twilight:  pausing  there,  she  caught, 
Was  it  the  clash  of  s word i  '—a  swift  dark  thought 

Struck  down  her  lip's  rich  crimson  as  it  pass'd, 
And  from  her  eye  the  sunny  sparkle  took 
One  moment  with  its  tearfulness,  and  shook 

Her  slight  frame  fiercely,  as  a  stormy  blast 
Might  rock  the  rose.    Once  more,  and  yet  once 

more, 

She  still'd  her  heart  to  listen,— all  was  o'er; 
Sweet  summer  winds  alone  were  heard  to  sigh, 
Bearing  the  nightingale's  deep  spirit  by. 

That  night  Imelda's  voice  was  in  the  song. 
Lovely  it  floated  through  the  festive  throng, 
Peopling  her  father's  halls.    That  fatal  night 
Her  eye  look'd  starry  in  its  dazzling  light, 
And  her  cheek  glow'd  with  beauty's  flushing  dye§ 
Like  a  rich  cloud  of  eve  in  southern  skies, 
A  burning,  ruby  cloud.    There  were,  whose  gaze 
Follow'd  her  form  beneath  the  clear  lamp's  blaze. 


162 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  marvell'd  at  its  radiance.  But  a  few 
Beheld  the  brightness  of  that  feverish  hue, 
With  something  of  dim  fear;  and  in  that  glnncc 

Found  strange  and  sudden  tokens  of  unrest. 
Startling  to  meet  amidst  the  mazy  dance, 

Where  thought,  if  present,  an  unbidden  guest, 
Comes  not  unmask'd.  Howe'er  this  were,  the  time 
Hped  as  it  speeds  with  joy,  and  grief,  and  crime 
Alike  :  and  when  the  banquet's  hall  was  left 
Unto  its  garlands  of  their  bloom  bereft, 
When  trembling  stars  look'd  silvery  in  their  wane, 
And  heavy  flowers  yet  slumber'd,  once  again 
There  stole  a  footstep,  fleet,  and  light,  and  Ion  , 
iirough  the  dim  cedar  shade  ;  the  step  of  one 
hat  started  nt  a  leaf,  of  one  that  fled, 
f  one  that  panted  with  some  secret  dread : — 
What  did  Imelda  there  ?    PHP  sought  the  scene 
Wlnre  love  so  late  with  youth  and  hope  had  been; 
Boilings  were  on  her  soul— a  shuddering  thrill 
Ran  through  each  vein,  when  first  the  Naiad's  rill 
Met  her  with  melody— sweet  sounds  and  low; 
We   hear  them  yet,  they  live  along  its  flow— 
Her  voice  is  music  lost !    The  fountain-side 
She  gain'd— the  wave  flash'd  forth— 'twas  darkly 

dyed 
Ev'n  as  from  warrior-hearts;  and  on  its  edge, 

Amidst  the  fern,  and  flowers,  and  moss-tufts  deep, 
There  lay,  as  Inll'd  by  stream  and  rustling  sedge, 
A  youth,  a  graceful  youth.  "  Oh!  dost  thou  sleep  ? 
Azzo!"  she  cried,  "my  Azzo !  is  this  rest?" 
But  then  her  low  tones  falter'd  :— "  On  thy  breast 
Is  the  stain,— yes,  *t  is  blood  !— and  that  cold  cheek, 
Thatmovelesslip!— thou  dost  not  slumber?— speak, 
Speak,  Azzo,  my  beloved  !— no  sound— no  breath— 
What  hath  come  thus  between  our  spirits  ?-Death ! 
Death?— I  but  dream— I  dream!"— and  there  she 

stood, 

A  faint,  frail  trembler,  gazing  first  on  blood, 
With  her  fair  arm  around  yon  cypress  thrown, 
Her  form  sustain'd  by  that  dark  stem  alone, 
And  fading  fast,  like  spell-struck  maid  of  old, 
'nto  white  waves  dissolving,  clear  and  cold; 
When  from  the  grass  her  dimm'd  eye  caught  a 

gleam — 

'Twas  where  a  sword  lay  shiver'd  by  the  stream, — 
Her  brother's  sword  !— she  knew  it ;  and  she  knew 
'Twas  with  a  venom'd  point  that  weapon  slewl 
Woe  for  young  love  !     But  love  is  strong.    There 

came 

Strength  upon  woman's  fragile  heart  and  frame, 
There  came  swift  courage  !    On  the  dewy  ground 
She  knelt,  with  all  her  dark  hair  floating  round. 
Like  a  long  silken  stole;  she  knelt,  and  press'd 
Her  lips  of  glowing  life  to  Azzo's  breast, 
Drawing  the  poison  forth.    A  strange,  sad  sight ! 
Pale  death,  and  fearless  love,  and  solemn  night  !— 
Bo  the  moon  saw  them  last. 

The  morn  came  singing 

Through  the  green  forests  of  the  Apennines, 
With  all  her  joyous  birds  their  free  flight  winging, 

And  steps  and  voices  out  among  the  vines. 
What  found  that  day-spring  here?  Two  fair  forms 

laid 

Like  sculptured  sleepers;  from  the  myrtle  shade 
Casting  a  gleam  of  beauty  o'er  the  wave. 
Still,  mournful,  sweet.    Were  such  things  for  the 

grave  ? 

Could  it  be  so  indeed  ?   That  radiant  girl, 
Deck'd  as  for  bridal  hours! — long  braids  of  pearl 
Amidst  her  shadowy  locks  were  faintly  shining, 

As  tears  might  shine,  with  melancholy  light ; 
And  there  was  gold  her  slender  waist  entwining 

And  her  pale  graceful  arms— how  sadly  bright  1 
And  fiery  gems  upon  her  breast  were  lying, 
And  round  her  marble  brow  red  roses  dying.- 
But  she  died  first !— the  violets  hue  had  spread 

O'er  her  sweet  eyelids  with  repose  oppress'd. 
She  had  bow'd  heavily  her  gentle  head. 

And,  on  the  youth's  hush'd  bosom,  sunk  to  rest 

So  slept  they  well !— the  poison's  work  was  done 

Love  with  true  heart  had  striven— but  Death  hat 

won 


EDITHi 

A  TALE  OF  THE  WOODS.' 


Du  Heilige !  rufe  dein  Kind  znruck ! 
leh  habe  genossen  das  irdische  Gluck, 
Ich  habe  gelebt  und  reliebet. 

miUnttein. 


THE  woods— oh  solemn  are  the  boundless  woods 
Of  the  great  Western  World,  when  day  decline! 
And  louder  sounds  the  roll  of  distant  floods. 

More  deep  the  rustling  of  the  ancient  pinei ' 
iVhen  dimness  gathers  on  the  stilly  air. 

And  mystery  seems  o'er  every  leaf  to  broot 
Awful  it  is  for  human  heart  to  bear 

The  might  and  burden  of  the  solitude  I 
Yet,  in  that  hour,  'midst  those  green  wastes,  there 

sate 

3ne  young  and  fair;  and  oh  I  how  desolate! 
But  umlisrnay'd  ;  while  sank  the  crimson  light, 
And  the  liich  cedars  darken °d  with  the  night. 
Alone  sin-  sate:  though  many  lay  around. 
They,  pale  and  silent  on  the  bloody  ground, 
Were  sever'd  from  her  need  and  from  her  woe, 

Far  as  Death  severs  Life.    O'er  that  wild  spot 
Combat  had  raged,  and  brought  the  valiant  low, 

And  left  them,  with  the  history  of  their  lot, 
Unto  the  forest  oaks.    A  fearful  scene 
For  her  whose  home  of  other  days  had  been 
'Midst  the  fair  halls  of  England  !  but  the  love 

Which  fill'd  her  soul  was  strong  to  cast  out  fear, 
And  by  its  might  upborne  all  else  above. 
She  shrank  not— mark'd  not  that  the  dead  were 

near.  • 
Of  him  alone  she  thought,  whose  languid  head 

Faintly  upon  her  wedded  bopom  fell ; 
Memory  of  aught  but  him  on  earth  was  fled, 

While  heavily  she  felt  his  life-blood  well 
Fast  o'er  her  garments  forth,  and  vainly  bound 
With  her  torn  robe  and  hair  the  streaming  wound, 
Yet  hoped,  still  hoped !— Oh  1  from  such  hope  how 

long 

Affection  wooes  the  whispers  that  deceive, 
Ev'n  when  the  pressure  of  dismay  grows  strong, 

And  we,  that  weep,  watch,  tremble,  ne'er  believe 
The  blow  indeed  can  fall !    So  bow'd  she  there, 
Over  the  dying,  while  unconscious  prayer 
Fill'd  all  her  soul.     Now  pour'd  the  moonlight 

down, 

Veining  the  pine-stems  through  the  foliage  brown, 
And  fire-flies,  kindling  up  the  leafy  place. 
Cast  fitful  radiance  o'er  the  warrior's  face, 
Whereiy  she  caught  its  changes  :  to  her  eye, 
The  eye  that  faded  look'd  through  gathering 

haze. 
Whence  love,  o'ermastering  mortal  agony. 

Lifted  a  long  deep  melancholy  gaze, 
When  voice  was  not:   that  fond  sad  meaning 

pass'd — 

She  knew  the  fullness  of  her  woe  at  last! 
One  shriek  the  forests  heard, — and  mute  she  lay, 
And  cold  ;  yet  clasping  still  the  precious  clay 
To  her  scarce-heaving  breast.  O  Love  and  Death 
Ye  have  sad  meetings  on  this  changeful  earth, 
Many  and  sad  I  but  airs  of  heavenly  breath 
Shall  melt  the  links  which  bind  you,  for  your  birth 
Is  far  apart. 

Now  light,  of  richer  hue 

Than  the  moon  sheds,  came  flushing  mist  and  dew 
The  pines  grew  red  with  morning  ;  fresh  winds 

play'd, 
Bright-colour'd  birds  with  splendour  cross'd  the 

shade. 

Flitting  on  flower-like  wings ;  glad  murmurs  broke 
From  reed,  and  spray,  and  leaf,  the  living  string! 
Of  earth's  Eolian  lyre,  whose  music  woke 
Into  young  life  and  joy  all  happy  things. 
And  she  too  woke  from  that  long  dreamless  trance, 
The  widow'd  Edith :  fearfully  her  glance 

*  founded  on  incidents  related  in  an  Anwrican  wort.  "Skstchc* 
of  Coi.uecticut." 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


163 


Fell,  as  in  doubt,  on  faces  dark  and  strange, 
And  dusky  forms.     A  sudden  sense  of  change 
Flash'd  o'er  her  spirit,  ev'n  ere  memory  swept 
The  tide  of  anguish  back  with  thoughts  that  slept: 
Yet  half  instinctively  she  rose,  and  spread 
Her  arms,  as  'twere  for  something  lost  or  fled, 
Then  faintly  sank  again.    The  forest-bough, 
With  all  its  whispers,  waved  not  o'er  her  now, — 
Where  was  she  ?    'Midst  the  people  of  the  wild, 

By  the  red  hunter's  fire:  an  aged  chief, 
Whose  home  look'd  sad — for  therein  play'd  no 

child- 
Had  borne  her,  in  the  stillness  of  her  grief, 
To  that  lone  cabin  of  the  woods ;  and  there. 
Won  by  a  form  so  desolately  fair, 
Or  toueh'd  with  thoughts  from  some  past  sorrow 

sprung. 

O'er  her  low  couch  an  Indian  matron  hung, 
While  in  grave  silence,  yet  with  earnest  eye, 
The  ancient  warrior  of  the  waste  stood  by, 
Bending  in  watchfulness  his  proud  gray  head, 
And  leaning  on  his  bow. 

And  life  return'd, 
Life,  but  with  all  its  memories  of  the  dead. 

To  Edith's  heart;  and  well  the  sufferer  learn'd 
Her  task  of  meek  endurance,  well  she  wore 
The  chasten'd  grief  that  humbly  can  adore, 
'Midst  blinding  tears.    But  unto  that  old  pair, 
Ev'n  as  a  breath  of  spring's  awakening  air. 
Her  presence  was;  or  as  a  sweet  wild  tune 
Bringing  back  tender  thoughts,  which  all  too  soon 
Depart  with  childhood.    Sadly  they  had  seen 

A  daughter  to  the  land  of  spirits  go, 
And  ever  from  that  time  her  fading  mien. 

And  voice,  like  winds  of  summer,  soft  and  low, 
Had  haunted  their  dim  years  ;  but  Edith's  face 
Now  look'd  in  holy  sweetness  from  her  place, 
And  they  again  seern'd  parents.    Oh!  the  joy, 
The  rich,  deep  blessedness— though  earth's  alloy, 
Pear  that  still  bodes,  be  there — of  pouring  forth 
The  heart's  whole  power  of  love,  its  wealth  and 

worth 

Ot  strong  affection,  in  one  healthful  flow. 
On  something  all  its  own! — that  kindly  glow, 
Which  to  shut  inward  is  consuming  pain, 
Gives  the  glad  soul  its  flowering  time  again, 
When,  like  the  sunshine,  freed. — And  gentle  cares 
Th'  adopted  Edith  meekly  gave  for  theirs 
Who  loved  her  thus:— her  spirit  dwelt,  the  while, 
With  the  departed,  and  her  patient  smile 
Spoke  of  farewells  to  earth  ;— yet  still  she  pray'd, 
Ev'n  o'er  her  soldier's  lowly  grave,  for  aid 
One  purpose  to  fulfil,  to  leave  one  trace 
Brightly  recording  that  her  dwelling-place 
Had  been  among  the  wilds ;  for  well  she  knew 
The  secre*  whisper  of  her  bosom  true, 
Which  warn'd  her  hence. 

And  now,  by  many  a  word 
•jink'd  unto  moments  when  the  heart  was  stirr'd, 
ty  the  sweet  mournfulness  of  many  a  hymn, 
*mg  when  the  woods  at  eve  grew  hush'd  and  dim, 
iy  the  persuasion  of  her  fervent  eye, 
411  eloquent  with  child-like  piety, 
By  the  still  beauty  of  her  life,  she  strove 
To  win  for  heaven,  and  heaven-born  truth,  the 

love 

Pour'd  out  on  her  so  freely.— Nor  in  vain 
Was  that  soft-breathing  influence  to  enchain 
The  soul  in  gentle  bonds:  by  slow  degrees 
Light  follow'd  on,  as  when  a  summer  breeze 
Parts  the  deep  masses  of  the  forest  shade 
And  lets  the  sunbeam  through :— her  voice  was 

made 

Ev'n  such  a  breeze  ;  and  she,  a  lowly  guide, 
By  faith  and  sorrow  raised  and  purified, 
So  to  the  Cross  her  Indian  fosterers  led. 
Until  their  prayers  were  one.    When  morning 

spread 

O'er  the  blue  lake,  and  when  the  sunset's  glow 
Touch'd  into  golden  bronze  the  cypress-bough, 
And  when  the  quiet  of  the  Sabbath  time 
Bank  on  her  heart,  though  no  melodious  chime 
Waken'd  the  wilderness,  their  prayers  were  one. 
—Now  might  she  pass  in  hope,  her  work  was  done. 


And  she  was  passing  from  the  woods  away, 
The  broken  flower  of  England  might  not  stay 
Amidst  those  alien  shades ;  her  eye  was  bright 
Ev'n  yet  with  something  of  a  starry  light, 
But  her  form  wasted,  and  her  fair  young  cheek 
Wore  oft  and  patiently  a  fatal  streak, 
A  rose  whose  root  was  death.    The  parting  sigh 
Of  autumn  through  the  forests  had  gone  by, 
And  the  rich  maple  o'er  her  wanderings  lone 
Its  crimson  leaves  in  many  a  shower  had  strown 
Flushing  the  air;  and  winter's  blnst  had  been 
Amidst  the  pines;  and  now  a  softer  green 
Fringed  their  dark  boughs;  for  spring  again  had 

come, 

The  sunny  spring!  but  Edith  to  her  home 
Was  journeying  fast     Alas!  we  think  it  sid 
To  part  with  life,  when  all  the  earth  looks  glad 
In  her  young  lovely  things,  when  voices  break 
Into  sweet  sounds,  and  leaves  and  blossoms  wake. 
Is  it  not  brighter  then,  in  that  far  clime 
Where  graves  are  not,  nor  blights  of  changeful  time, 
If  here  such  glory  dwell  with  passing  blooms. 
Such  golden  sunshine  rest  around  the  tombs? 
So  thought  the  dying  one.    'Twas  early  day. 
And  sounds  and  odours  with  the  breezes'  play. 
Whispering  of  spring-time,  through  the  cabi  n-door, 
Unto  her  couch  life's  farewell  sweetness  bore ; 
Then  with  a  look  where  all  her  hope  awoke, 
"My  father!"— to  the  gray-hair'd  chief  she  spoke— 
"Know'st  thou    that    I  depart?"— "I  know,    I 

know," 

He  answer'd  mournfully,  "  that  thou  must  go 
To  thy  beloved,  my  daughter!" — "  Sorrow  not 
For  me,  kind  mother  1"  with  meek  smiles  once 

more 

She  murmur'd  in  low  tones;  "one  happy  lot 
Awaits,  us.  friends!  upon  the  better  shore ; 
For  we  have  pray'd  together  in  one  trust. 
And  lifted  our  frail  spirits  from  the  dust, 
To  God,  who  gave  them.    Lay  me  by  mine  own. 
Under  the  cedar-shade  :  where  he  is  gone 
Thither  I  go.    There  will  my  sisters  be. 
And  the  dead  parents,  lispine  nt  whopp  knee 
My  childhood's  prayer  was  learn'd,— the  Saviour's 

prayer 

Which  now  ye  know, — and  I  shall  meet  you  there, 
Father,  and  gentle  mother! — ye  have  bound 
The  bruised  reed,  and  mercy  shall  be  found 
By  Mercy's  children."— From  the  matron's  eye 
Dropp'd  tears,  her  sole  and  passionate  reply; 
But  Edith  felt  them  not;  for  now  a  sleep, 
Solemnly  beautiful, -a  stillness  deep. 
Fell  on  her  settled  face.    Then,  sad  and  slow. 
And  mantling  up  his  stately  head  in  woe, 
"  Thou'rt  passing  hence,"  he  sang,  that  warrior  old, 
In  sounds  like  those  by  plaintive  waters  roll'd. 


"  Thou'rt  passing  from  the  lake's  green  side, 

And  the  hunter's  hearth  away; 
For  the  time  of  flowers,  for  the  summer's  pride. 

Daughter)  thou  canst  not  stay. 

Thou'rt  journeying  to  thy  spirit's  home. 

Where  the  skies  are  ever  clear; 
The  corn-month's  golden  hours  will  come. 

But  they  shall  not  And  thee  here. 

And  we  shall  miss  thy  voice,  my  bird  I 

Under  our  whispering  pine; 
Music  shall  'midst  the  leaves  be  heard. 

But  not  a  song  like  thine. 

A  breeze  that  roves  o'er  stream  and  hill, 

Telling  of  winter  gone. 
Hath  such  sweet  falls— yet  caught  we  still 

A  farewell  in  its  tone. 

But  thou,  my  bright  one !  thou  shall  be 

Where  farewell  sounds  are  o'er; 
Thou,  in  the  eyes  thou  lov'st,  shall  see 

No  fear  of  parting  more. 

The  mossy  grave  thy  tears  have  wet, 
And  the  wind's  wild  moanings  by, 

Thou  with  thy  kindred  shall  forget, 
'Midst  flowers—  not  such  as  die. 


164 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  shadow  from  thy  brow  shall  melt, 

The  sorrow  from  thy  strain, 
But  where  thine  earthly  smile  hath  dwelt, 

Our  hearts  shall  thirst  in  vain. 

Dim  will  our  cabin  be,  and  lone, 

When  thou,  its  light,  art  fled ; 
Yet  hath  thy  step  the  pathway  ihown 

Unto  the  happy  dead. 

And  we  will  follow  thee,  our  guide! 

And  join  that  shining  band  ; 
Thou'rt  passing  from  the  lake's  green  side — 

Go  to  the  better  land !" 


The  song  had  ceased— the  listeners  caught  no 

breath. 
That  lovely  sleep  had  melted  into  death. 


THE    INDIAN    CITY. 


What  deep  wounds  ever  clmed  without  a  scar? 
The  heart's  bleed  longest,  and  but  heal  to  wear 
That  which  di«figure«  it. 

Childt  Harold. 


ROTAL  in  splendour  went  down  the  day 

On  the  plain  where  an  Indian  city  lay. 

With  its  crown  of  domes  o'er  the  forest  high, 

Red  as  if  fused  in  the  burning  sky, 

And  its  deep  groves  pierced  by  the  rays  which  made 

A  bright  stream's  way  through  each  long  arcade, 

Pill  the  pillar'd  vaults  of  the  Banian  stood. 

Like  torch-lit  aisles  'midst  the  solemn  wood, 

And  the  plantain  glitter'd  with  leaves  of  gold, 

As  a  tree  'midst  the  genii-gardens  old. 

And  the  cypress  lifted  a  blazing  spire. 

And  the  stems  of  the  cocoas  wore  shafts  of  fire. 

Many  a  white  pagoda's  gleam 

Slept  lovely  round  upon  lake  and  stream, 

Broken  alone  by  the  lotus-flowers, 

As  they  caught  the  glow  of  the  sun's  last  hours, 

Like  rosy  wine  in  their  cups,  and  shed 

Its  glory  forth  on  their  crystal  bed. 

Many  a  graceful  Hindoo  maid, 

With  the  water-vase  from  the  palmy  shade, 

Came  gliding  light  as  the  desert's  roe, 

Down  marble  steps  to  the  tanks  below; 

And  a  cool  sweet  plashing  was  ever  heard, 

As  the  molten  glass  of  the  wave  was  stirr'di 

And  a  murmur,  thrilling  the  scented  air. 

Told  where  the  Bramin  bow'd  in  prayer. 

There  wander'd  a  noble  Moslem  boy 

Through  the  scene  of  beauty  in  breathless  joy , 

He  gazed  where  the  stately  city  rose 

Like  a  pageant  of  clouds  in  its  red  repose; 

He  turn'd  where  birds  through  the  gorgeous  gloom 

Of  the  woods  went  glancing  on  starry  plume; 

He  track'd  the  brink  of  the  shining  lake, 

By  the  tall  canes  feather'd  in  tuft  and  brake. 

Till  the  path  he  chose,  in  its  mazes  wound 

To  the  very  heart  of  the  holy  ground. 

And  there  lay  the  water,  as  if  enshrined 
In  a  rocky  urn  from  the  sun  and  wind, 
Bearing  the  hues  of  the  grove  on  high, 
Far  down  through  its  dark  still  purity. 
The  flood  beyond,  to  tlie  fiery  west 
Spread  out  like  a  metal-mirror's  breast. 
But  that  lone  bay,  in  its  dimness  deep, 
SeemM  made  for  the  swimmer's  joyous  leap, 
For  the  stag  athirst  from  the  noontide  chase, 
For  all  free  things  of  the  wild-wood's  race. 

Like  a  falcon's  glance  on  the  wide  bine  sky, 
'Was  the  kindling  flush  of  the  boy's  glad  eye. 

»  From  a  tile  in  Fortes'  Oriental  Memoirs. 


Like  a  sea-bird's  flight  to  tin  foaming  wave. 
From  the  shadowy  bank  was  the  bound  be  gave; 
Dashing  the  spray-drops,  cold  and  white, 
O'er  the  glossy  leaves  in  his  young  delight, 
And  bowing  his  locks  to  the  waters  clear- 
Alas  !  he  dreamt  not  that  fate  was  near. 

His  mother  look'd  from  her  tent  the  while, 

O'er  heaven  and  earth  with  a  quiet  smile: 

She,  on  her  way  unto  Mecca's  fane. 

Had  stay  M  the  inarch  of  her  pilgrim-train, 

Calmly  to  linger  a  few  brief  hours, 

In  the  Bramin  city's  glorious  bowers; 

For  the  pomp  of  the  forest,  the  wave's  bright  fall, 

The  red  gold  of  sunset— she  loved  them  all. 

II. 

The  moon  rose  clear  in  the  splendour  given 
To  the  deep-blue  night  of  an  Indian  heaven; 
The  boy  from  the  high-arch'd  woods  came  back — 
Oh!  what  had  he  met  in  his  lonely  track  ? 
The  serpent's  glance,  thro'  the  long  reeds  bright  1 
The  arrowy  spring  of  the  tiger's  might  ? 
No! — yet  as  one  by  a  conflict  worn. 
With  his  graceful  hair  all  soil'd  and  torn, 
And  a  gloom  on  the  lids  of  his  darken'd  eye. 
And  a  gash  on  his  bosom — he  came  to  die! 
He  look'd  for  the  face  to  hia  young  heart  sweet, 
And  found  it,  and  sank  at  his  mother's  feet. 

"Speak  to  me!— whence  doth  the  swift  blood  run 

What  hath  befall'n  thee,  my  child,  my  son  ?" 

The  mist  of  death  on  his  brow  lay  pale. 

But  his  voice  just  linger'd  to  breathe  the  tale, 

Murmuring  faintly  of  wrongs  and  scorn. 

And  wounds  from  the  children  of  Brahma  borne : 

This  was  the  doom  for  a  Moslem  found 

With  foot  profane  on  their  holy  ground, 

This  was  for  sullying  the  pure  waves  free 

Unto  them  alone— 'twas  their  God's  decree. 

A  change  came  over  his  wandering  look— 

The  mother  shriek'd  not  then,  nor  shook : 

Breathless  she  knelt  in  her  son's  young  blood, 

Rending  her  mantle  to  staunch  its  flood : 

But  it  rush'd  like  a  river  which  none  may  stay. 

Bearing  a  flower  to  the  deep  away. 

That  which  our  love  to  the  earth  would  chain, 

Fearfully  striving  with  Heaven  in  vain. 

That  which  fades  from  us,  while  yet  we  hold, 

Clasp'd  to  our  bosoms,  its  mortal  mould, 

Was  fleeting  before  her,  afar  and  fast ; 

One  moment— the  soul  from  the  face  had  pass'd! 

Are  there  no  words  for  that  common  woe  ? 

—Ask  of  the  thousands,  its  depth  that  know! 

The  boy  had  breathed,  in  his  dreaming  rest, 

Like  a  low-voiced  dove,  on  her  gentle  breast. 

He  had  stood,  when  she  sorrow'd,  beside  her  knee, 

Painfully  stilling  his  quick  heart's  glee  ; 

He  had  kiss'd  from  her  cheek  the  widow's  tears, 

With  the  loving  lip  of  his  infant  years; 

He  had  smiled  o'er  her  path  like  a  bright  spring 

day— 

Now  in  his  blood  on  the  earth  he  lay! 
Afurdcr'd! — Alas!  and  we  love  so  well 
In  a  world  where  anguish  like  this  can  dwell  I 

She  bow'd  down  mutely  o'er  her  dead— 
They  that  stood  round  her  watch'd  in  dread ; 
They  watch'd— she  knew  not  they  were  by— 
Her  soul  sat  veil'd  in  its  agony. 
On  the  silent  lip  she  press'd  no  kiss, 
Too  stern  was  the  grasp  of  her  pangs  for  this ; 
She  shed  no  tear  as  her  face  bent  low, 
O'er  the  shining  hair  of  the  lifeless  brow; 
She  look'd  but  into  the  half-shut  eye, 
With  a  gaze  that  found  there  no  reply, 
And  shrieking,  mantled  her  head  from  sight, 
And  fell,  struck  down  by  her  sorrow's  might! 

And  what  deep  change,  what  work  of  power. 
Was  wrought  on  her  secret  soul  that  hour? 
How  rose  the  lonely  one  ?— She  rose 
Like  a  prophetess  from  dark  repose  I 
And  proudly  flung  from  her  face  the  veil. 
And  shook  the  hair  from  her  forehead  pale, 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  'midst  her  wondering  handmaids  stood, 

With  the  sudden  glance  of  a  dauntless  mood. 

Ay.  lifting  up  to  the  midnight  sky 

A  brow  in  its  regal  passion  high, 

With  a  close  and  rigid  prasp  she  press'd 

The  blood-stain'd  robe  to  her  heaving  breast, 

And  said—"  Not  yet— not  yet  I  weep, 

Not  yet  my  spirit  shall  sink  or  sleep, 

Not  till  yon  city,  in  ruins  rent. 

Be  piled  for  its  victim's  monument. 

— Cover  his  dust'  bear  it  on  before! 

It  shall  visit  those  temple-gates  once  more." 

And  away  in  the  train  of  the  dead  she  turn'd. 
The  strength  of  her  step  was  the  heart  that  burn'd ; 
And  the  Bramin  groves  in  the  starlight  smiled. 
As  the  mother  pass'd  with  her  slaughter'd  child. 


As  the  light  of  the  lances  along  it  plav'd  ; 

And  the  canes  that  shook  as  if  winds  were  high, 

When  the  fiery  steed  of  the  waste  swept  by; 


When  the  fiery  steed  ot  the  waste  swept  n; 
And  the  camp  as  it  lay.  like  a  billowy  sea. 
Wide  round  the  sheltering  Banian  tree. 


There  stood  one  tent  from  the  rest  apart- 
Thai  was  the  place  of  a  wounded  heart. 
—Oh !  deep  is  a  wounded  heart,  and  strong 
A  voice  that  cries  against  mighty  wrong; 
And  full  of  death,  as  a  hot  wind's  blight, 
Doth  the  ire  of  a  crush'd  affection  light. 

Maimuna  from  realm  to  realm  had  pass'd, 
And  her  tale  had  rung  like  a  trumpet's  blast. 
There  had  been  words  from  nor  pale  lips  pour'd, 
F.ach  one  a  spell  to  unsheathe  the  sword. 
The  Tartar  had  sprung  from  his  steed  to  hear, 
And  the  dark  chief  of  Araby  grasp'd  his  spear, 
Till  a  chain  of  long  lances  begirt  the  wall, 
And  a  vow  was  recorded  that  doom'd  its  fall. 

Back  with  the  dust  of  her  son  she  came, 

When  her  voice  had  kindled  that  lightning  flame 

She  came  in  tlie  might  of  a  queenly  foe, 

Banner,  and  javelin,  and  bended  bow; 

But  a  deeper  power  on  her  forehead  sate — 

There  sought  the  warrior  his  star  of  fate  ; 

Her  eye's  wild  flash  through  the  tented  line 

Was  hail'd  as  a  spirit  and  a  sign, 

And  the  faintest  tone  from  her  lip  was  caught, 

As  a  Sibyl's  breath  of  prophetic  thought. 

Vain,  bitter  glory  ! — the  gift  of  grief. 
That  lights  up  vengeance  to  find  relief, 
Transient  and  faithless!— it  cannot  fill 
So  the  deep  void  of  the  heart,  nor  still 
The  yearning  left  by  a  broken  tie, 
That  haunted  fever  of  which  we  die  I 

Sickening  she  turn'd  from  her  sad  renown, 
As  a  king  in  death  miglit  reject  his  crown  ; 
Slowly  the  strength  of  the  walls  gave  way— 
She  wither'd  faster  from  day  to  day. 
All  the  proud  sounds  of  that  banner'd  plain, 
To  stay  the  flight  of  tier  soul  were  vain  ; 
Like  an  eagle  caged,  it  had  striven,  and  worn 
The  frail  dust  ne'e/  for  such  conflicts  born, 
Till  the  bars  were  rent,  and  the  hour  was  come 
For  its  fearful  rushing  through  darkness  home. 

The  bright  sun  set  in  his  pomp  and  pride, 
As  on  that  eve  when  the  fair  boy  died; 
Biie  gazed  from  her  couch,  and  a  softness  fell 


O'er  ner  weary  heart  with  the  day's  farewell ; 
She  spoke,  and  her  voice  in  its  dying  tone 
Had  an  echo  of  feelings  that  lone  seem'd  flown. 
She  inurmur'd  a  low  sweet  cradle  sorg. 
Strange  'midst  the  din  of  a  warrior  throng, 

A  song  of  the  time  when  her  boy's  young  cheek 
Had  glow'd  on  her  breast  in  its  slumber  meek ; 
But  something  which  breathed  frotn  that  mournful 

strain 

Sent  a  titful  gust  o'er  her  soul  again, 
And  starting  as  if  from  a  dream,  she  cried — 
•  Give  him  proud  burial  at  my  side ! 
There,  by  yon  lake,  where  the  palm-boughs  wave, 
When  the  temples  are  fallen,  make  there  out 

grave." 

And  the  temples  fell,  thotisri  the  spirit  pass'd, 
That  stay'd  not  for  victory's  voice  at  last ; 
When  the  day  was  won  for  the  martyr-dead. 
For  the  broken  heart,  and  the  bright  "blood  shed. 

Thro'  the  gates  of  the  vanquish'd  the  Tartar  steed 
Bore  in  the  avenger  with  foaming  spvjed ; 
Free  swept  the  flame  through  the  idol-fanes, 
And  the  streams  glow'd  red,  as  from  warrior  veins 
And  the  sword  of  the  Moslem,  let  loose  to  slay, 
Like  the  panther  leapt  on  its  flying  prey, 
Till  a  city  <if  ruin  begirt  the  shade, 
Where  the  boy  and  his  mother  at  rest  were  laid. 

Palace  and  tower  on  that  plain  were  left, 
Like  fallen  trees  by  the  lightning  cleft : 
The  wild  vine  mantled  the  stately  square, 
The  Rajah's  throne  was  the  serpent's  lair, 
And  the  jungle  grass  o'er  the.  altar  sprung — 
This  was  the  work  of  one  deep  heart  wrung 


PEASANT  GIRL  OF  THE  RHONE. 


There  it  but  one  place  in  the  world. 
Thither  where  he  lies  buried ! 

*  *  «  *  • 

There,  there  is  all  that  still  remains  of  him, 
That  single  spot  is  the  whole  earth  to  me. 

Cclcridgt'i  Waltenstcin 
AUs !  our  young  affections  run  to  waste, 
Or  water  but  the  desert. 

Childt  Bamld. 


THERE  went  a  warrior's  funeral  through  the  night 
A  waving  of  tall  plumes,  a  ruddy  light 
Of  torches,  fitfully  and  wildly  thrown 
From  the  high  woods,  along  the  sweeping  Rhone, 
Far  down  the  waters.    Heavily  and  dead. 
Under  the  moaning  trees  the  horse-hoofs  tread 
In  muffled  sounds  upon  the  greensward  fell. 
As  chieftains  pass'd  ;  and  solemnly  the  swell 
Of  the  deep  requiem,  o'er  the  gleaming  river 
Borne  with  the  gale,  and  with  the  leaves'  low 

shiver, 
Floated  and  died.   Proud  mourners  there,  yet  pale, 

Wore  man's  mute  anguish  sternly  ;— but  of  one 
Oht    who  shall  speak?    What  words  his  brow 
unveil  ? 

A  father  following  to  the  grave  his  son  I 
That  ie  no  grief  to  picture!  Sad  and  slow, 

Through  the  wood-shadows  moved  the  knightly 

train, 
With  youth's  fair  form  upon  the  bier  laid  low, 

Fair  even  when  found,  amidst  the  bloody  slain, 
Stretch'd  by  its  broken  lance.    They  reach'd  tl» 
lone 

Baronial  chapel,  where  the  forest  gloom 
Fell  heaviest,  for  the  massy  boughs  had  grown 

Into  thick  archways,  as  to  vault  the  tomb. 


166 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Btately  they  trod  the  hollow-ringing  aisle, 
A  strange  deep  echo  snudder'd  through  the  pile, 
Till  crested  heads  at  last,  in  silence  bent 
Round  the  He  Coucis'  antique  monument, 
When  dust  to  dust  was  given  : — and  Aymer  slept 

Beneath  the  drooping  banners  of  his  line. 
Whose  broider'd  f  >l<ls  the  Syrian  wind  had  swept 

Proudly  and  oft  o'er  fields  of  Palestine  : 
So  the  sad  rite  was  closed. — The  sculptor  pave 
Trophies,  ere  long,  to  deck  that  lordly  grave, 
And  the  pale  image  of  a  youth,  array'd 
As  warriors  are  for  fight,  but  calmly  laid 

In  slumber.on  his  shield. —Then  all  was  done, 
AH  still,  around  the  dead.— His  name  was  heard 
Perchance  when  wine-cups  flow'd,  and  hearts  were 

stirr'd 

By  some  old  song,  or  tale  of  battle  won, 
Told  round  the  hearth :  but  in  his  father's  breast 
Manhood's  high  passions  woke  again,  and  press'd 
On  to  their  mark  ;  and  in  his  friend's  clear  eye 
There  dwelt  no  shadow  of  a  dream  gone  by  ; 
And  with  the  brethren  of  his  fields,  the  feast 
Was  gay  as  when  the  voice  whose  sounds  had 

ceased 

Mingled  with  theirs.— Ev'n  thus  life's  rushing  tide 
Bears  back  affection  from  the  grave's  dark  side  : 
Alas  !  to  think  of  this  !— the  heart's  void  place 

Fill'd  up  so  soon  ! — so  like  a  summer-cloud. 
All  that  we  loved  to  pass  and  leave  no  trace  t — 

He  lay  forgotten  in  his  early  shroud. 
Forgotten  ? — not  of  all ! — the  sunny  smile 
Glancing  in  play  o'er  that  proud  lip  erewhile, 
And  the  dark  locks  whose  breezy  waving  threw 
A  gladness  round,  whene'er  their  shade  withdrew 
From  the  bright  brow ;  and  all  the  sweetness  lying 

Within  that  eagle-eye's  jet  radiance  deep, 
And  all  the  music  with  that  young  voice  dying. 

Whose  joyous  echoes  made  the  quick  heart  leap 
As  at  a  hunter's  bugle — these  things  lived 
Still  in  one  breast,  whose  silent  love  survived 
The  pomps  of  kindred  sorrow.— Day  by  day, 
On  Aymer's  tomb  fresh  flowers  in  earla-iils  lay. 
Thro'  the  dim  fane  soft  summer-odours  breathing, 
And  all  the  pale  sepulchral  trophies  wreathing. 
And  with  a  flush  of  deeper  brillianse  glowing 
In  the  rich  light,  like  molten  rubies  flowing 
Through  storied  windows  down.   The  violet  there 
Might  speak  of  love— a  secret  love  and  U>wly, 
And  the  rose  image  all  things  fleet  and  fair, 
And  the  faint  passion-flower,  the  sad  and  holy, 
Tell  of  diviner  hopes.     But  whose  light  hand, 
As  for  an  altar,  wove  the  radiant  band? 
Whose  gentle  nurture  brought,  from  hidden  dells, 
That  gem-like  wealth  of  blossoms  and  sweet  bells, 
To  blush  through  every  season  ?— Blight  and  chill 
Might  touch  the  changing  woods,  but  duly  still, 
For  years,  those  gorgeous  coronals  renew'd. 

And  brightly  clasping  marble  spear  and  helm. 
Even  through  mid-winter,  fill'd  the  solitude 

With  a  strange  smile,  a  glow  of  summer's  realm 
Surely  some  fond  and  fervent  heart  was  pouring 
Its  youth's  vain  worship  on  the  dust,  adoring 
In  lone  devoted  ness! 

One  spring-morn  rose, 
And  found,  within  that  tomb's  proud  shadow 

laid— 
Oh  !  not  as  'midst  the  vineyards,  to  repose 

From  the  fierce  noon— a  dark-hair'd  peasant 

maid: 
Who  could  reveal  her  story  ?— That  still  face 

Had  once  been  fair ;  for  on  the  clear  arch'd  brow, 
And  the  curved  lip,  there  linger'd  yet  such  grace 

As  sculpture  gives  its  dreams;  and  long  and  low 
The  deep  black  lashes,  o'er  the  half-shut  eye— 
For  death  was  on  its  lids- fell  mournfully. 
But  the  cold  cheek  was  sunk,  the  raven  hair 
Dimm'A  the  slight  form  all  wasted,  as  by  care. 
Whence  came  that  early  blight?— Her  kindred'* 

place 

Was  not  amidst  the  high  De  Couci  race; 
Yet  there  her  shrine  had  been!— She   grasp'd  a 

wreath — 
The  tomb's  last  garland !— This  was  lore  in  death! 


INDIAN  WOMAN'S  DEATH-SONG. 


An  Indian  woman,  driven  to  despair  by  her  husband 
desertion  of  her  for  another  wife,  entered  a  canoe  with 
her  children,  and  rowed  it  down  the  Mississippi  toward 
a  cataract.  Her  voice  was  heard  from  the  shore  singing 
a  mournful  death-song,  until  overpowered  by  the  sound 
of  the  waters  in  which  »i»;  perished.  The  tale  is  related 
in  Long's  Expedition  to  the  source  of  St.  Peter's  River. 

NOD,  je  DC  puu  vivre  avec  un  coeur  brise.  11  faut  que  je  retroun 
la  joie,  et  que  je  m'unisse  aui  esprite  librw  de  Pair. 

Bridt  ojMeuina,  Translated  by  Madame  de  Slael. 

Let  not  my  child  be  a  girl,  for  very  sad  ij  the  life  of  a  woman. 

Tht  Praint. 

DOWN  a  broad  river  of  the  western  wilds, 
Piercing  thick  forest  glooms,  a  light  canoe 
Swept  with  the  current:  fearful  was  the  speed 
Of  the  frail  hark,  as  by  a  tempest's  wing 
Borne  leaf-like  on  to  where  the  mist  of  spray 
Rose  with  the  cataract's  thunder.— Yel  within, 
Proudly,  and  daiintlessly,  and  all  alone, 
Save  that  a  babe  lay  sleeping  at  her  breast, 
A  woman  stood  :  upon  her  Indian  brow 
Sat  a  strange  gladness,  and  her  dark  hair  waved 
As  if  triumphantly.    She  press'd  her  child. 
In  its  bright  slumber,  to  her  beating  heart. 
And  lifted  her  sweet  voice,  that  rose  awhile 
Above  the  sound  of  waters,  high  and  clear. 
Wafting  a  wild  proud  strain,  her  song  of  death. 


Roll  swiftly  to  the  Spirit's  land,  thou  mighty  stream 

and  free ! 
Father  of  ancient  waters,(5)  roll!  and  bear  our 

lives  with  thee! 
The  weary  bird  that  storms  have  toss'd,  would 

seek  the  sunshine's  calm, 
And  the  deer  that  hath  the  arrow's  hurt,  flies  to 

the  woods  of  balm. 

Roll  on  !— my  warrior's  eye  hath  look'd  upon  an- 

other's  face, 
And  mine  hath  faded  from  his  sou),  as  fades  a 

moonbeam's  trace; 
My  shadow  comes  not  o'er  bis  path,  my  whisper 

to  his  dream, 
He  flings  away  the  broken  reed— roll  swifter  yet, 

thou  stream  t 

The  voice  that  spoke  of  other  days  is  busb'd  with- 
in his  breast, 

But  mine  its  lonely  music  haunts,  and  will  not  let 
me  rest ; 

It  sings  a  low  and  mournful  song  of  gladness  that 
is  gone, 

I  cannot  live  without  that  light— Father  of  waves  1 
roll  on  \ 

Will  he  not  miss  the  bounding  step  that  met  him 

from  the  chase  ? 
The1  heart  of  love  that  made  his  home  an  ever 

sunny  place? 
The  hand  that  spread  the  hunter's  board,  and  deck' 

his  couch  of  yore  ? — 
He  will  not !— roll,  dark  foaming  stream,  on  to  th» 

better  shore  \ 

Some  blessed  fount  amidst  the  woods  of  that  bright 

land  must  flow, 
Whose  waters  from  my  soul  may  lave  the  memory 

of  this  woe ; 
Some   gentle  wind  must  whisper  there,  whose 

breath  may  waft  away 
The  burden  of  the  heavy  night,  the  sadness  of  th« 

day. 

And  thou,  my  babe!  though  born,  like  me,  for 

woman's  weary  lot. 
Smile  !— to  that  wasting  of  the  heart,  my  own !  I 

leave  tUee  not ; 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


167 


Too  bright  a  thing  art  thou  to  pine  in  aching  love 

away, 
Thy  mother  bears  thee  far,  young  Fawn!  from 

sorrow  and  decay. 

She  bears  thee  to  the  glorious  bowers  where  none 
are  heard  to  weep, 

And  where  th'  unkind  one  hath  no  power  again 
to  trouble  sleep; 

And  where  the  soul  shall  find  its  youth,  as  waken- 
ing from  a  dream, — 

One  moment,  and  that  realm  is  ours— On,  on,  dark 
rolling  stream  1 


JOAN  OF  ARC,  IN  RHEIMS. 


Jeanne  d' Arc  avail  eu  la  joie  do  voir  a  Chalons  quel- 
ques  amis  de  son  entance.  Une  joie  plus  ineffable  encore 
1'attendait  a  Kheims,  au  sein  de  son  triomphe :  Jaquea 
d'Arc,  son  pere  y  se  trouva,  aussitot  que  le  troupes  de 
Charles  Vll.  y  furent  entrees  ;  etcomme  lea  deux  freres 
de  notre  Heroine  I'avaient  accompagnes,  elle  se  vit,  pour 
un  instant  au  milieu  de  sa  tUmille,  dans  leg  bras  d'un 
pere  vertueux.  Vie  de  Jeanne  d'jlr* 


Thou  hast  a  charmed  cup,  O  Fame! 

A  draught  that  mantles  high, 
And  seems  to  lift  this  earth-born  fram 

Above  mortality: 
Away  !  to  me — a  woman — bring 
Street  waten  from  affection'!  spring. 


THAT  was  a  joyous  day  in  Kheims  of  old, 
When  peal  on  peal  of  mighty  music  roll'd 
Forth  from  her  throng'rl  cathedral;  while  around, 
A  multitude,  whose  billows  made  no  sound, 
Chain'd  to  a  hush  of  wonder,  though  elate 
With  victory,  listen'd  at  their  temple's  gate. 
And  what  was  done  within  ?— within,  the  light 

Thro'  the  rich  gloom  of  pictured  windows  flowi  ng 
Tinged  with  soft  awt'ulness  a  stately  sight, 

The  chivalry  of  France,  their  proud  heads  bow- 
ing 

In  martial  vassalage! — while  'midst  that  ring, 
And  shadow'd  by  ancestral  tombs,  a  king 
Received  his  birthright's  crown.  For  this,  the  hymn 

Swell'd  out  like  rushing  waters,  and  the  day 
With  the  sweet  censer's  misty  breath  grew  dim, 

As  through  long  aisles  it  floated  o'er  th'  array 
Of  arms  and  sweeping  stoles.     But  who,  alone 
And  unapproach'd,  beside  the  altar-stone, 
With    the    white    banner,    forth    like    sunshine 

itreaniir.fr, 
And  the  gold  helm,  through  clouds  of  fragrance 

gleaming. 

Silent  and  radiant  stood?—  the  helm  was  raised, 
And  the  fair  face  reveal'd  that  upward  gazed, 

Intensely  worshipping  : — a  still,  clear  face, 
Youthful,  but  brightly  solemn  !— Woman's  cheek 
And  brow  were  there,  in  deep  devotion  meek, 

Yet  glorified  with  inspiration's  trace 
On  its  pure  paleness ;  while,  enthroned  above, 
The  pictured  virgin,  with  her  smile  of  love, 
Seem'd  bending  o'er  her  votaress. — That  slight 

form  1 

Was  that  the  leader  through  the  battle  storm  ? 
Had  the  soft  light  in  that  adoring  eye, 
Guided  the  warrior  where  the  swords  flash'd  high? 
'T  was  so,  even  so ! — and  thou  the  shepherd's  child, 
Joanne,  the  lowly  dreamer  of  the  wild  1 
Never  before,  and  never  since  that  hour. 
Hath  woman,  mantled  with  victorious  power. 
Stood  forth  as  tlnm  beside  the  shrine  didst  stand, 
Holy  amidst  the  knighthood  of  the  land  ; 
And  beautiful  with  joy  and  with  renown. 
Lift  thy  white  banner  o'er  the  olden  crown, 
Ransom'd  for  France  by  thee  ! 

The  rites  are  done. 
Row  let  the  dome  with  trumpet-notes  be  shaken, 


And  bid  the  echoes  of  the  tomhs  awaken. 

And  come  thou  forth,  that  Heaven's  rejoicingsun 
May  give  thee  welcome  from  thine  own  blue  skies, 

Daughter  of  victory!— a  triumphant  strain, 
A  proud  rich  stream  of  warlike  melodies, 

Gtish'd  through  the  portals  of  the  antique  fane. 
And  forth  she  came. — Then  rose  a  nation's  sound  1 
Oh  !  what  a  power  to  bid  the  quick  heart  bound, 
The  wind  bears  onward  with  the  stormy  cheer 
Man  gives  to  glory  on  her  high  career ! 
Is  there  indeed  such  power  ? — far  deeper  dwells 
In  one  kind  household  voice,  to  reach  the  cells 
Whence  happiness  flow'd  forth! — The  shouts  that 

flll'd 

The  hollow  heaven  tempestuously,  were  still'd 
One  moment;  and  in  that  brief  pause,  the  tone, 
As  of  a  breeze  that  o'er  her  home  had  blown. 
Sank  on  the  bright  maid's  heart. — "Joanne!" — 

who  spoke 
Like  those  whose  childhood  with  her  childhood 

grew 

Under  one  roof? — "Joanne!" — that  murmur  broke 
With  sounds  of  weeping  forth! — She  turn'd— 

she  knew 

Beside  her,  mark'd  from  all  th:;  thousands  there, 
In  the  calm  beauty  of  his  silver  hair, 
The  stately  shepherd ;  and  the  youth,  whose  joy 
From  his  dark  eye  flash'd  proudly  ;  and  the  boy, 
The  youngest-born,  that  ever  loved  her  best  ; 
"Father!  and  ye,  my  brothers  1" — On  the  breast 
Of  that  gray  sire  she  sank — and  swiftly  back, 
Ev'n  in  an  instant,  to  their  native  track 
Her  free  thoughts  flow'd. — She  saw  the  pomp  no 

more — 

The  plumes,  the  banners : — to  her  cabin-door. 
And  to  the  Fairy's  fountain  in  the  glade,  (fii 
Where  her  young  sisters  by  her  side  had  play'd. 
And  to  her  hamlet's  chapel,  where  it  rose 
Hallowing  the  forest  unto  deep  repose, 
Her  spirit  turn'd. — The  very  wood-note,  sung 

In  early  spring-time  by  th'!  bird,  which  dwelt 
Where  o'er  her  father's  roof  the  beach-leaves  hung. 

Was  in  her  heart ;  a  music  ht-ard  and  felt. 
Winning  her  back  to  nature.— She  unbound 
The  holm  of  many  battles  from  her  head, 
And,  with  her  bright  locks   bow'd  to  sweep  the 

ground, 

Lifting  her  voice  up,  wept  for  joy,  and  said, — 
"Bless  me,  my  father,  bless  me!  and  with  thee, 
To  the  still  cabin  and  the  beechen-tree, 
Let  me  return  1" 

Oh!  never  did  thine  eye 
Through  the  green  haunts  of  happy  infancy 
Wander  again,  Joanne! — too  much  of  fame 
Had  shed  its  radiance  on  thy  peasant  name  ; 
And  bought  alone  by  gifts  beyond  all  price, 
The  trusting  heart's  repose,  the  paradise 
Of  .home  with  all  its  loves,  doth  fate  allow 
The  crown  of  glory  unto  woman's  brow. 


PAULINE. 


To  die  for  what  we  love !— Oh !  there  is  power 
In  the  true  heart,  and  pride,  and  joy,  for  thitf 
It  ii  to  live  without  the  vaniih'd  light 
That  strength  is  needed. 


Cos!  trapasta  al  trapassar  d'un  Gioruo 
Delia  vita  mortal  il  fiora  e'l  verde. 


Tauo. 


AI.ONO  the  star-lit  Seine  went  music  swelling 

Till  the  air  thrill'd  with  its  exulting  mirth  : 
Proudly  it  floated,  even  as  if  no  dwelling 

For  cares  or  stricken  hearts  were  found  on  earth 
And  a  glad  sound  the  measure  lightly  beat, 
A  happy  chime  of  many  dancing  feet. 
For  in  a  palace  of  the  land  that  night, 

Lamps,  and  fresh  roses,  and  green  leaves  were 

hung. 
And  from  the  painted  walls  a  stream  of  light 

On  flying  forms  beneath  soft  splendour  flung  t 


168 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  loveliest  far  amidst  the  revel's  pride 
Was  one,  the.  lady  from  the  Danube-side  ?  (7) 

Pauline,  the  meekly  bright!— though  now  no  more 
Her  clear  eye  flash'd  with  youth's  all  tameless 
glee, 

Yet  something  holier  than  its  dayspring  wore, 
There  in  soft  rest  lay  beautiful  to  SPH; 

Acharm  with  graver,  tenderer,  sweet  ness  fraught — 

The  blending  of  deep  love  and  matron  thought. 

Through  Ilie  gay  throng  she  moved,  serenely  fair, 
And  such  calm  joy  as  tills  a  moonlight  sky. 

Bate  on  h^r  brow  beneath  its  graceful  hair. 
As  her  young  daughter  in  the  dance  went  by, 

With  the  flnnt  step  of  one  that  yet  hath  known 

Smiles  and  kind  voices  in  this  world  alone. 

Lnrk'd  there  no  secret  boding  in  her  breast? 

Diil  no  faint  whisper  warn  of  evil  nigh? 
Such  oft  awake  when  most  the  heart  seems  blest 

'Midst  the  light  laughter  of  festivity: 
Whence  come  those  tones!  —  Alas!  enough  we 

know. 
To  mingle  fear  with  all  triumphal  show  I 

Who  spoke  of  evil,  when  young  feet  were  flying 
In  fairy  rincs  around  the  echoing  hall  ? 

Soft  airs  through  braided  locks  in  perfume  sighing, 
Glad  pulses  beating  unto  music's  call  ? 

Silence! — the  minstrels  pause — and  hark!  a  sound, 

A  strange  quick  rustling  which  their  notes  had 
drown'd ! 

And  lo!  a  light  upon  the  dancers  breaking — 
Not  such  their  clear  and  silvery  lamps  had  shed ! 

From  the  gay  dream  of  revelry  awaking, 
One  moment  holds  them  still  in  breathless  dread; 

The  wild  fierce  lustre  grows — then  bursts  a  cry — 

Fire!  through  the  hall  and  round  it  gathering — fly  I 

And  forth  thty  r  sn  — as  chased  by  sword  and 

spear — 

Tr>  th-  areen  coverts  of  the  garden -bowers ; 
A  gorgeous  masque  of  pageantry  and  fear, 
Startling   the    birds  and  trampling  down   the 

flowers : 

While  from  the  dome  behind,  red  sparkles  driven 
Pierce  the  dark  stillness  of  the  midnight  heaven. 

And  where  is  she,  Pauline  ? — the  hurrying  throng 
Have  swept  her  onward,  as  a  stormy  blast 

Might  sweep  some  faint  o'erwearied  bird  along — 
Till  now  the  threshold  of  that  death  is  past, 

And  free  she  stands  beneath  the  starry  skies, 

Calling  her  child — but  no  sweet  voice  replies. 

"  Bertha!  where  art  thou  ?— Speak,  oh !  speak,  my 

own !" 

Alas  I  unconscious  of  her  pangs  the  while, 
The  gentle  girl,  in  fear's  cold  grasp  alone. 

Powerless  hath  sunk  within  the  blazing  pile; 
A  young  bright  form,  deck'd  gloriously  for  death, 
With  flowers  all  shrinking  from  the  flame's  fierce 
breath  1 

But  oh!  thy  strength,  deep  love ! — there  is  no  power 
To  stay  the  mother  from  that  rolling  grave, 

Though  fast  on  high  the  fiery  volumes  tower, 
And  forth,  like  banners,  from  each  lattice  wave; 

Back,  back  she  rushes  through  a  host  combined — 

Mighty  is  anguish,  with  affection  twined  ! 

And  what  bold  step  may  follow,  'midst  the  roar 
Of  the  red  billows,  o'er  their  prey  that  rise  ? 

None ! — Courage  there  stood  still — and  never  more 
Did  those  fair  forms  emerge  on  human  eyes  I 

Was  one  brief  meeting  theirs,  one  wild  farewell  ? 

And  died  they  heart  to  heart?— Oh!  who  can  tell? 

Freshly  and  cloudlessly  the  morning  broke 

On  that  sad  palace,  'midst  its  pleasure-shades , 
Its  painted  roofs  had  sunk — yet  black  with  smoke 

And  lonely  stood  its  marble  colonnades  : 
But  yecter-eve  their  shafts  with  wreaths  were 

bound  I—- 
Now lay  the  scene  one  shrivell'd  scroll  around ! 


And  bore  the  ruins  no  recording  trace 
Of  all  that  woman's  heart  had  dared  and  done! 

Yes !  there  were  gems  to  mark  its  mortal  place, 
That  forth  from  dust  and  ashes  dimly  shone) 

Those  had  the  mother  on  her  gentle  breast, 

Worn  round  her  child's  fair  image,  there  at  rest 

And  they  were  all — the  tender  and  the  true 
Left  this  alone  her  sacrifice  to  prove, 

Hallowing  the  spot  where  mirth  once  lightly  flew, 
To  deep,  lone,  chasten'd  thoughts  of  grief  and 
love. 

Oh!  we  have  need  of  patient  faith  below. 

To  clear  away  the  mysteries  of  such  woe ! 


J  U  A  N  A. 

Juana,  mother  of  (he  Emperor  Charles  V.,  upon  the 
death  of  her  husband,  Philip  the  Handsome  of  Austria, 
who  had  treated  her  with  uniform  neglect,  had  his  body 
laid  upon  a  bed  of  state  in  a  magnificent  dress,  and  being 
possessed  with  the  idea  that  it  would  revive,  watched  it 
for  a  length  of  time  incessantly,  waiting  for  the  moment 
of  returning  life. 


It  ii  but  dust  thou  look's!  upon.    This  lore, 
Tl.is  wild  and  passionate  idolatry, 
What  doth  it  in  the  shadow  of  the  grave 
Gather  it  back  within  thy  lonely  he«rt; 
So  must  it  ever  end  :  too  much  we  give 
Unto  the  things  that  perish. 


THE  night-wind  shook  the  -apestry  round  an  an- 
cient palace-room, 

And  torches,  as  it  rose  and  fell,  waved  through  the 
gorgeous  gloom. 

And  o'er  a  shadowy  regal  couch  threw  fitful  gleami 
and  red, 

Where  a  woman  with  long  raven  hair  sat  watch- 
ing by  the  dead 

Pale  shone  the  features  of  the  dead,  yet  glorious 

still  to  see, 
Like  a  hunter  or  a  chief  struck  down  while  his 

heart  and  step  were  free  ; 
No  shroud  he  wore,  no  robe  of  death,  but  there 

majestic  lay, 
Proudly  and  sadly  glittering  in  royalty's  array. 

But  she  that  with  the  dark  hair  watch'd  by  the 
cold  slumberer's  side, 

On  her  wan  cheek  no  beauty  dwelt,  and  in  her 
garb  no  pride ; 

Only  her  full  iripassion'd  eyes  as  o'er  that  clay 
she  hem, 

A  wildness  and  a  tenderness  in  strange  resplen- 
dence blent. 

And  as  the  swift  thoughts  cross'd  her  soul,  like 

shadows  of  a  cloud, 
Amidst  the  silent  room  of  death,  the  dreamer 

spoke  aloud ; 
She  spoke  to  him  who  rould  not  hear,  and  cried, 

"Thou  yet  wilt  wake, 
And  learn  my  watchings  and  my  tears,  beloved 

one  I  for  thy  sake. 

"  They  told  me  this  was  death,  but  well  I  knew  it 

could  not  be ; 
Fairest  and  stateliest  of  the  earth !  who  spoke  of 

death  for  thee  ? 
They  would  have  wrapt  the  funeral  shroud  thy 

gallant  form  around, 
But  I  forbade— and  there  thou  art,  a  monarch, 

robed  and  crown'd ! 

"  With  all  thy  bright  locks  gleaming  still,  their 

coronal  beneath, 
And  thy  brow  so  proudly  beautiful— who  said  that 

this  was  death? 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


169 


Silence  hath  been  upon  thy  lips,  a  rid  stillness  round 

thee  long, 
But  the  iinpeful  spirit  in  my  breast  is  all  undimm'd 

and  strong. 

"  I  know  thou  hast  not  loved  me  yet ;  I  am  not 
fair  lilu-  thee. 

The  very  glance  of  whose  clear  eye  threw  round  a 
light  of  glee ! 

A  frail  and  drooping  form  is  mine — a  cold  un- 
smiling cheek, 

Out  I  have  but  a  woman's  heart,  wherewith  thy 
heart  to  seek. 

"  But  when  Ihon  wak'st,  my  prince,  my  lord  !  and 

hcar'st  how  I  have  kept 
A  lonely  vigil  by  thy  side,  and  o'er  thee  pray'd  and 

wept ; 
How  in  one  long  deep  dream  of  thee  my  nights 

and  days  have  past, 
Surely  that  humble,  patient  love  must  win  back 

love  at  last! 

"  And  thou  wilt  smile— my  own,  my  own,  shall  be 

the  sunny  smile, 
WSich  brightly  fell,  and  joyously,  on  all  but  me 

erewhilel 
No  more  in  vain  affection's  thirst  my  weary  soul 

shall  pine — 
Ohl  years  of  hope  deferr'd  were  paid  by  one  fond 

glance  of  thine! 

"Thou'It  meet  me  with  that  radiant  look  when 

thou  comest  from  the  chase, 
For  me,  for  me,  in  festal  halls  it  shall  kindle  o'er 

thy  face  1 
Thou'It  reck  no  more  though  beauty's  gift  mine 

aspect  may  not  bless; 
In  thy  kind  eyes  this  deep,  deep  love,  shall  give 

me  loveliness. 

"  But  wake !  my  heart  within  me  butns,  yet  once 

more  to  rejoice 
In  the  sound  to  which  it  ever  leap'd,  the  music  of 

thy  voice : 
Awake !  I  sit  in  solitude,  that  thy  first  look  and 

tone, 
And  the  gladness  of  thinu  opening  eyes,  may  all 

be  mine  alone." 

In  the  still  chambers  of  the  dust,  thus  pour'd  forth 

day  by  day, 
The  passion  of  that  loving  dream  from  a  troubled 

soul  found  way, 
Until  the  shadows  of  the  grave  had  swept  o'er 

every  grace, 
Left  'midst  the  awfulness  of  death  on  the  princely 

form  and  face. 

And   slowly  broke    the  fearful   truth  upon  the 

watcher's  breast, 
And  they  bore  away  the  royal  dead  with  requiem* 

to  his  rest, 
With  banners  and  with  knightly  plumes  all  waving 

in  the  wind — 
But  a  woman's  broken  heart  was  left  in  its  lone 

despair  behind. 


THE  AMERICAN  FOREST  GIRL. 


A  fearful  gift  upon  thy  heart  ii  laid, 
Woman  !— »  power  to  differ  and  to  love, 
Therefore  thou  so  canst  pity. 


WILDLT  and  mournfully  the  Indian  drum 

On  the  deep  hush  of  moonlight  forests  broke;— 
"  Sing  us  a  death  song,  for  thine  hour  is  come,"— 

So  the  red  warriors  to  their  captive  spoke. 
Still,  and  amidst  those  dusky  forms  alone, 

A  youth,  a  fair-hair'd  youth  of  England  stood, 
Like  a  king's  son  ;  tho'  from  his  cheek  had  flown 

The  mantling  crimson  of  the  island-blond. 
And  his  press'd  linslook'd  marble.— Fiercely  bright, 
And  high  around  Ii  in,  blazed  the  fires  of  night, 


Rocking  beneath  the  cedars  to  and  fro, 
As  the  wind  pass'd,  and  with  a  fitful  glow 
Lighting  the  victim's  face  : — But  who  could  tell 
Of  what  within  his  secret  heart  befell, 
Known  but  to  heaven  that  hour  ?— Perchance  • 

thought 

Of  his  far  home  then  so  intensely  wrought, 
That  its  full  image,  pictured  to  his  eye 
On  the  dark  ground  of  mortal  agony, 
Rose  clear  as  day  ! — and  he  might  see  the  band, 
Of  his  young  sisters  wandering  hand  in  hand, 
Where  the  laburnums  droop'd  ;  or  haply  binding 
The  jasmine,  up  the  door's  low  pillars  winding ; 
Or,  ns  day  closed  upon  their  gentle  mirth. 
Gathering,  with  braided  hair,  around  the  hearth 
Where  sat  ihfir  mother  ;— and  that  mother's  face 
Its  grave  sweet  smile  yet  wearing  in  the  place 
Where  so  it  ever  smiled ! — Perchance  the  prayer 
Lcarn'd  at  her  knee  came  back  on  his  despair ; 
The  blessing  from  her  voice,  the  very  tone 
Of  her  "  Qood-nigkl"  might  hieathe  from  boyhood 

gone  !— 

He  started  and  lo^g'd  up: — thick  cypress  boughs 
Full  of  strange  sound,  waved  o'er  him,  darkly 

red 

In  the  broad  stormy  firelight ;— savage  brows, 
With  tall  plumes  crested  and  wild  hues  o'er 

spread, 

Girt  him  like  feverish  phantoms;  and  pale  stars 
Look'd  thro'  the  branches  as  thro'  dungeon  bars, 
Shedding  no  hope. — He  knew,  he  felt  his  doom—- 
Oh !  what  a  tale  to  shadow  with  its  gloom 
That  happy  hall  in  England  !— Idle  fear  1 
Would  the  winds  tell  it? — Who  might  dream  or 

hear 

The  secret  of  the  forests  ?— To  the  stake 
They  bound  him;  and  that  proud  young  soldier 

strove 
His  father's  spirit  in  his  breast  to  wake, 

Trusting  to  die  in  silence !    He,  the  love 
Of  many  hearts! — the  fondly  rcar'd, — the  fait 
Gladdening  all  eyes  to  see! — Arid  fetter'd  there 
He  stood  beside  his  death-pyre,  and  the  brand 
FlaTied  up  to  light  it,  in  the  chieftain's  hand. 
He  thought  upon  his  God. — Hush!  hark! — aery 
Breaks  on  the  stern  and  dread  solemnity, — 
A  step  hath  pierced  the  ring  ! — Who  dares  intrudfl 
On  the  dark  hunters  in  their  vengeful  mood  ? — 
A  pirl — a  young  slight  girl — a  fawn-like  child 
Of  green  Savannas  ami  the  leafy  wild, 
Springing  unmark'd  till  then,  as  some  lone  flower, 
Happy  because  the  sunshine  is  its  dower  ; 
Vet  one  that  knew  how  early  tears  are  shed, — 
For  hers  had  mourn'd  a  playmate  brother  dead. 

She  had  sat  gazing  on  the  victim  long. 
Until  the  pity  of  her  soul  grew  strong; 
And,  by  its  passion's  deepening  fervour  sway'd, 
Ev'n  to  the  stake  she  rush'd,  and  gently  laid 
His  bright  head  on  her  bosom,  and  around 
His  form  her  slender  arms  to  shield  it  wound 
Like  close  Liannes;  then  raised  her  glittering  eye 
And  clear-toned  voice  that  said,  "  He  shall  not 
die !" 

"  He  shall  not  die  I"— the  gloomy  forest  thrill  'd 
To  that  sweet  sound.    A  sudden  wonder  fell 
On  the  fierce  throng;  and  heart  and  hand  wera 

still'd. 

Struck  down,  as  by  the  whisper  of  a  spell. 
They  gazed,— their  dark  souls  bow'd  before  the 

maid, 

She  of  the  dancing  step  in  wood  and  glade  ) 
And,  as  her  cheek  flush'd  through  its  o  ive  hue, 
As  her  black  tresses  to  the  night- wind  flew, 
Something  o'ermaster'd  them  from  that  young 

mien — 

Something  of  heaven,  in  silence  felt  and  seen  ; 
And  seeming,  to  their  child-like  faith,  a  token 
That  the  Great  Spirit  by  her  voice  had  spoken. 

They  loosed  the  bonds  that  held  their  captive't 

breath ; 

Prom  his  pale  lips  they  took  the  cup  of  death ; 
They  quench'd  the  brand  beneath  the  cypress  trees 
"  Away,"  they  cried,  "  young  stranger,  thou  art 

free !"' 


170 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


COSTANZA. 


^..i         Art  thou  then  denlate? 
Of  Meodt,  of  hopes  foniken  ? — Come  to  me  ! 
I  UB  thine  own.— Have  tnuted  hearti  proved  fab*  ? 
TUtteren  deceived  thee  ?   Wanderer,  come  to  me ! 
Why  didit  thou  ever  leave  me?   Know'it  thou  all 
I  would  have  borne,  and  call'd  it  joy  to  bear, 
For  thy  take  ?  Know'it  thou  that  thy  voice  had  power 
To  Aake  me  with  a  thrill  of  happinea 
By  one  kind  tone  ?— to  fill  mine  eyes  with  tear* 
Of  yearning  love?   And  tbou— oh  !  thou  didit  throw 
That  crush'd  affection  back  upon  my  heart  J — 
Yet  com*  '••>  me  '.—it  died  not 


SHE  knelt  in  prayer.    A  stream  of  sunset  fell 
Through  the  stain'd  window  of  her  lonely  cell, 
And  with  its  rich,  deep,  melancholy  glow 
Flushing  her  cheek  and  pale  Madonna-brow, 
While  o'er  her  long  hair's  flowing  jet  it  threw 
Bright  waves  of  gold— the  autumn  forest's  hue— 
Seem'd  all  a  vision's  mist  of  glory,  spread 
By  painting's  touch  around  some  holy  head, 
V'irein's  or  fairest  martyr's.    In  her  eye. 
Which  glanced  as  dark  clear  water  to  the  sky, 
What  solemn  fervour  lived!  And  yet  what  woe, 
Lay  like  some  buried  thing,  still  seen  below 
The  glassy  tide  !   Oh!  he  that  could  reveal 
What  life  had  taught  that  chasten'd  heart  to  feel, 
Might  speak  indeed  of  woman's  blighted  years, 
And  wasted  love,  and  vainly  bitter  tears  I 
But  she  had  told  her  griefs  to  heaven  alone. 
And  of  the  gentle  saint  no  more  was  known, 
Than  that  she  fled  the  world's  cold  breath,  and 

made 

A  temple  of  the  pine  and  chestnut  shade. 
Filling  its  depths  with  soul,  whene'er  her  hymn 
Rose  through  each  murmur  of  the  green,  and  dim, 
And  ancient  solitude  ;  where  hidden  streams 
Went  moaning  through  the  grass,  like  sounds  in 

dreams, 

Music  for  weary  hearts  I  'Midst  leaves  and  flowers 
She  dwelt,  and  knew  all  secrets  of  their  powers, 
All  nature's  balms,  wherewith  her  gliding  tread 
To  the  sick  peasant  on  his  lowly  bed. 
Came,  and  'brought  hope ;  while  scarce  of  mortal 

birth 

He  deem'd  the  pale  fair  form,  that  held  on  earth 
Communion  but  with  grief. 

Ere  long  a  cell, 

A  rock-hewn  chapel  rose,  a  cross  of  stone 
Gleam'd  thro'  the  dark  trees  o'er  a  sparkling  well, 

And  a  sweet  voice,  of  rich,  yet  mournful  tone, 
Told  the  Calabrian  wilds,  that  duly  there 
Costanza  lifted  her  sad  heart  in  prayer. 
And  now  't  was  prayer's  own  hour.    That  voice 

again 

Through  the  dim  foliage  sent  its  heavenly  strain, 
Tv>at  made  the  cypress  quiver  where  it  stood 
Xn  day's  last  crimson  soaring  from  the  wood 
~jike  spiry  flame.    But  as  the  bright  sun  set, 
Hher  and  wilder  sounds  in  tumult  met 
The  floating  song.  Strange  sounds  I— the  trumpet'! 

peal, 

'dade  hollow  by  the  rocks;  the  clash  of  steel. 
The  rallying  war-cry. — In  the  mountain-pass, 
There  had  been  combat ;  blood  was  on  the  grass, 
fanners  had  strewn  the  waters ;  chiefs  lay  dying, 
And  the  pine-branches  crash'd  before  the  flying. 

And  all  was  changed  within  the  still  retreat, 
Costanza's  home : — there  enter'd  hurrying  feet, 
Dark  looks  of  shame  and  sorrow;  mail-clad  men. 


Stern  fugitives  from  that  wild  battlfi-glen. 
Scaring  the  ringdoves  from  the  porch-roof,  bore 
A  wounded  warrior  in  :  the  rocky  floor 
Gave  back  deep  echoes  to  his  clanging  sword, 
As  there  they  laid  their  leader,  and  implored 
The  sweet  saint's  prayers  to  )»al  him ;  then  fo. 

flight, 

Through  the  wide  forest  and  the  mantling  night, 
Sped  breathlessly  again. — They  pass'd — but  he. 
The  stateliest  of  a  host— alas  I  to  see 
What  mother's  eyes  have  watch'd  in  rosy  sleep 
Till  joy,  for  very  fullness,  turn'd  to  weep, 
Thus  changed  ! — a  fearful  thing!    His  golden  crest 
Was  shivef'd,  and  the  bright  scarf  on  his  breast- 
Some  costly  love-gift — rent : — but  what  of  these  ? 
There  were  the  clustering  raven-locks— the  breeze 
As  it  came  in  through  lime  and  myrtle  flowers, 
Might  scarcely  lift  them — steep'd  in  bloody  showers 
So  heavily  upon  the  pallid  clay 
Of  the  damp  cheek  they  hung!  the  eye's  dark  ray — 
Where  was  it  ? — and  the  lips  ! — they  gasp'd  apart, 
With  their  light  curve,  as  from  the  chisel's  art, 
Still  proudly  beautiful!  but  that  white  hue — 
Was  it  not  death's  ? — that  stillness — that  cold  dew 
On  the  scarr'd  forehead?    No!  his  spirit  broke 
From  its  deep  trance  ere  long,  yet  but  awoke 
To  wander  in  wild  dreams ;  and  there  he  lay, 
By  the  fierce  fever  as  a  green  reed  shaken, 
The  haughty  chief  of  thousands — the  forsaken 
Of  all  save  one ! — She  fled  not.    Day  by  day — 
Such  hours  are  woman's  birthright — she,  unknown, 
Kept  watch  beside  him,  fearless  and  alone; 
Binding  his  wounds,  and  oft  in  silence  laving 
His  brow  with  tears  that  mourn'd  the  strong  man's 

raving. 

He  felt  them  not,  nor  mark'd  the  light  veil'd  form 
Still  hovering  nigh ;  yet  sometimes,  when   that 
storm 

Of  frenzy  sank,  her  voice,  in  tones  as  low 
As  a  young  mother's  by  the  cradle  singing, 
Would  soothe  him  with  sweet  ai-e,s.  gently  bringing 

Moments  of  slumber,  when  the  fiery  glow 
Ebb'd  from  his  hollow  cheek. 

At  last,  faint  gleams 

Of  memory  dawn'd  upon  the  cloud  of  dreams. 
And  feebly  lifting,  as  a  child,  his  head. 
And  ea/.in?  rou-H  him  from  his  leafy  bed. 
He  murmur'd  forth,  "  Where  am  I?   What  soft 

strain 

Pass'd,  like  a  breeze,  across  my  burning  brain  ? 
Back  from  my  youth  it  floated,  with  a  tone 
Of  life's  first  music,  and  a  thought  of  one — 
Where  is  she  now  ?  and  where  the  gauds  of  priil« 
Whose  hollow  splendour  lured  me  from  her  side  1 
All  lost ! — and  this  is  death ! — I  cannot  die 
Without  forgiveness  from  that  mournful  eye  ! 
Away  I  the  earth  hath  lost  her.    Was  she  born 
To  brook  abandonment,  to  strive  with  scorn  ? 
Mj  first,  my  holiest  love  I — her  broken  heart 
Lies  low,  and  I — unpardon'd  I  depart." 

But  then  Costanza  raised  the  shadowy  veil 
From  her  dark  locks  and  features  brightly  pale. 
And  stood  before  him  with  a  smile— oh!  ne'er 
Did  aught  that  smiled  so  much  of  sadness  wear — 
And  said,  "Cesario!  look  on  me  ;  I  live 
To  say  my  heart  hath  bled,  and  can  forgive. 
I  loved  thee  with  such  worship,  such  deep  trust 
As  should  be  Heaven's  alone — and  Heaven  is  just 
I  bless  thee — be  at  peace  !" 

But  o'er  his  frame 

Too  fast  the  strong  tide  rush'd— the  sudden  shame, 
The  joy,  th*  amaze! — he  bow'd  his  head — it  fell 
On  the  wrong'd  bosom  which  had  loved  so  well; 
And  love,  still  perfect,  gave  him  refuge  there,— 
His  last  faint  breath  just  waved  her  floating  hair 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


171 


MADELINE. 
A  DOMESTIC  TALE.« 


Who  ihould  it  be !— Where  ihouldft  then  look  for  kindneM  ? 
When  we  are  lick,  where  can  we  turn  for  succour, 
When  we  are  wretched,  where  can  we  complain; 
And  when  the  world  looks  cold  and  >urly  on  at, 
Where  can  we  go  to  meet  a  warmer  eye 
With  luch  sure  confidence  at  to  a  mother  > 

Joanna  Baillit. 


"  My  child,  my  child,  them  leav'st  me  I— I  shall  hear 
The  gentle  voice  no  more  that  blest  mine  ear 
With  its  first  utterance;  I  shall  miss  the  sound 
Of  thy  light  step  amidst  the  flowers  around, 
And  thy  soft  breathing  hymn  at  twilight's  close, 
And  thy  "Good-night"  at  parting  for  repose: 
Under  the  vine-leaves  I  shall  sit  alone, 
And  the  low  breeze  will  have  a  mournful  tone 
Amidst  their  tendrils,  while  I  think  of  thee, 
My  child  !  and  thou,  along  the  moonlight  sea, 
With  a  soft  sadness  haply  in  thy  glance, 
Shalt  watch  thine  own,  thy  pleasant  land  of  France, 
Fading  to  air.— Yet  blessings  with  thee  go ! 
Love  guard  thee,  gentlest  I  and  the  exile's  woe 
From  thy  young  heart  be  far !— And  sorrow  not 
For  me,  sweet  daughter!  in  my  lonely  lot, 
God  shall  be  with  me.— Now  farewell,  farewell ! 
Thou  that  hast  been  what  words  may  never  tell 
Unto  thy  mother's  bosom,  since  the  days 
Wht'ii  thou  wert  pillow'd  there,  and  wont  to  raise 
In  sudden  laughter  thence  thy  loving  eye 
That  still  sought  mine :— these  moments  are  gone 

by, 

Thou  too  mustgo,  my  flower!— Vet  with  thee  dwell 
The  peace  of  God! — One,  one  more  gaze — farewell!" 

This  was  a  mother's  parting  with  her  child, 
A  young  meek  Bride  on  whom  fair  fortune  smiled, 
And  woo'd  her  with  a  voice  of  love  away 
From  childhood's  home ;  yet  there,  with  fond  delay 
She  linger'd  on  the  threshold,  heard  the  note 
Of  her  caged  bird  thro'  trellis'd  rose-leaves  float, 
And  fell  upon  her  mother's  neck,  and  wept, 
Whilst  old  remembrances,  that  long  had  slept, 
Gush'd  o'er  her  soul,  and  many  a  vanish'd  day, 
As  in  one  picture  traced,  before  her  lay. 

But  the  farewell  was  said  ;  and  on  the  deep, 
When  its  breast  heaved  in  sunset's  golden  sleep 
With  a  calm'd  heart,  young  Madeline  ere  long 
Pour'd  forth  her  own  sweet  solemn  vesper-song, 
Breathing  of  home:  through  stillness  heard  afar. 
And  duly  rising  with  the  first  pale  star. 
That  voice  was  on  the  waters ;  till  at  last 
The  sounding  ocean-solitudes  were  pass'd. 
And  the  bright  land  was  reach'd,  the  youthful  world 
That  glows  along  the  West :  the  sa'ils  were  furt'd 
In  its  clear  sunshine,  and  the  gentle  bride 
Look'd  on  the  home  that  promised  hearts  untried 
A  bower  of  bliss  to  come. — Alas !  we  trace 
The  map  of  our  own  paths,  and  long  ere  years 
With  their  dull  steps  the  brilliant  lines  efface, 
On  sweeps  the  storm,  and  blots  them  out  with  tears. 
That  home  was  darken'd  soon  :  the  summer  breeze 
Welcomed  with  death  the  wanderers  from  the  seas, 
I ••••! th  unto  one,  and  anguish  how  forlorn  1 
To  her,  that  widow'd  in  her  marriage-morn, 
Sat  in  hsr  voiceless  dwelling,  whence  with  him. 

Her  bosom's  first  beloved,  her  friend  and  guide. 
Joy  had  gone  forth,  and  left  the  green  earth  dim. 

As  from  the  sun  shut  out  on  every  side. 
By  the  close  veil  of  misery  ! — Oh  I  but  ill, 

When  with  rich  hopes  o'erfraught,  the  young 
high  heart 

Bears  its  first  blow!— it  knows  not  yet  the  part 
Which  life  will  teach— to  suffer  and  be  still, 

*  Originally  published  in  the  Literary  Souvenir  for  ISM 


And  with  submissive  love  to  count  the  flowers 
Which  yet  are  spared,  and  thro'  the  future  houu 
To  send  no  busy  dream  !—  She  had  not  lenrn'd 
Of  sorrow  till  that  hour,  and  therefore  turn'd. 
In  weariness,  from  life  :  then  came  th'  unrest. 
The  heart-sick  yearning  of  the  exile's  breast, 
The  haunting  sounds  of  voices  far  away. 
And  household  steps ;  until  at  last  she  lay 
On  her  lone  couch  of  sickness,  lost  in  dreams 
Of  the  gay  vineyards  and  blue-rushing  streams 
In  her  own  sunny  land,  and  murmuring  oft 
Familiar  names,  in  accents  wild,  yet  soft, 
To  strangers  round  that  bed,  who  knew  not  aught 
Of  the  deep  spells  where  with  each  word  was  fraught. 
To  strangers? — Oh  !  could  strangers  raise  the  head 
Gently  as  hers  was  raised  ? — did  strangers  shed 
The  kindly  tears  which  bathed  that  feverish  brow 
And  wasted  cheek  with  half  unconscious  flow  ? 
Something  was  there,  that  thro'  the  lingering  night 
Outwatches  patiently  the  taper's  light, 
Something  that  faints  not  thro'  the  <l;iy's  distress, 
That  fears  not  toil,  that  knows  not  weariness  ; 
Love,  true  and  perfect  love  ! — Whence  came  that 

power, 

Uprearing  through  the  storm  the  drooping  flower  ? 
Whence  ? — who  can  ask  ? — the  wild  delirium  pass'd, 
And  from  her  eyes  the  spirit  look'd  at  last 
Into  her  mother's  face,  and  wakening  know 
The  brow's  calm  grace,  the  hair's  dear  silvery  hue, 
The  kind  sweet  smile  of  old  ! — and  had  she  come, 
Thus  in  life's  evening,  from  her  distant  home. 
To  save  her  child  ? — Ev'n  so — nor  yet  in  vain  : 
In  that  young  heart  a  light  sprung  up  again, 
And  lovely  still,  with  so  much  love  to  give, 
Seern'd  this  fair  world,  though  faded  ;  still  to  live 
Was  not  to  pine  forsaken.    On  the  breast 
That  rock'd  her  childhood,  sinking  in  soft  rest, 
"Sweet  mother,  gentlest  mother  !  can  it  be  ?" 
The  lorn  one  cried,  "  and  do  I  look  on  thee  ? 
Take  back  thy  wanderer  from  this  fatal  shore, 
Peace  shall  be  ours  beneath  our  vines  once  more." 


QUEEN  OF  PRUSSIA  S  TOMB. 


"'  This  tomb  is  in  the  garden  of  Charlottenburgh,  near 
Berlin.  It  was  not  without  surprise  that  I  came  sudden 
ly,  among  trees,  upon  a  fair  white  Doric  temple.  I  might, 
and  should  have  deemed  it  a  mere  adornment  of  th« 
grounds,  but  the  cypress  and  the  willow  declare  it  a  ha- 
bitation of  the  dead.  Upon  a  sarcophagus  of  white 
marble  lay  a  sheet,  and  the  outline  of  the  human  form 
was  plainly  visible  beneath  its  folds.  The  person  with 
me  reverently  turned  it  back,  and  displayed  the  statue  of 
his  Queen.  It.  is  a  portrait-statue  recumbent,  said  to  be 
a  perfect  resemblance— not  an  in  death,  but  when  shu 
lived  to  bless  and  be  blessed.  Nothing  can  be  more  cala 
and  kind  than  the  expression  of  her  features.  The  hands 
are  folded  on  the  bosom ;  the  limbs  are  sufficiently  cross 
ed  to  show  the  repose  of  life.— Here  the  King  brings  her 
children  annually,  to  offer  garlands  at  her  grave.  Thesa 
hang  in  withered  mournt'ulness  above  this  living  image 
of  their  departed  mother."— Sherer's  Note*  and  Reflec- 
tions during  a  Ramble  in  Germany. 


In  sweet  pride  upon  that  intuit  keen 

She  smiled  ;  then  drooping  mute  and  broken-hearted 

To  the  cold  comfort  of  the  grave  departed. 

•MMH 


IT  stands  where  northern  willow*  weep, 

A  temple  fair  and  lone ; 
Soft  shadows  o'er  its  marble  sweep, 

From  cypress-branches  thrown ; 
While  silently  around  it  spread, 
Thou  feel'st  the  presence  of  the  dead. 


172 


1IEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  what  within  is  richly  shrined? 

A  sculptured  woman's  form, 
Lovely  in  perfect  rest  reclined, 

As  one  beyond  the  storm  . 
Yet  not  of  death,  but  slumber,  lies 
The  solemn  sweetness  on  those  eyes. 

The  folded  hands,  the  calm  pure  face, 

The  mantle's  quiet  flow, 
The  gentle,  yet  majestic  grace, 

Throned  on  the  matron  brow ; 
These,  in  that  scene  offender  gloom, 
With  a  still  glory  robe  the  tomb. 

There  standi  »n  eagle,  at  the  feet 

Of  the  fair  image  wrought ; 
A  kingly  emblem — nor  unmeet 

To  wake  yet  deeper  thought: 
She  whose  high  heart  finds  rest  beloW 
Was  royal  in  her  birth  and  woe. 

There  are  pale  garlands  hung  above, 

Of  dying  scent  and  hue;— 
She  was  a  mother— in  her  love 

How  sorrowfully  true  I 
Oh  !  hallow'd  long  he  every  leaf, 
The  record  of  her  children's  grief! 

She  saw  their  birthright's  warrior  crown 

Of  olden  glory  spoil'd, 
The  standard  of  their  sires  borne  down, 

The  shield's  bright  blazon  soil'd  : 
She  met  the  tempest  meekly  brave, 
Then  turn'd,  o'erwearied,  to  the  grave 

She  slumber'd  ;  but  it  came— it  came, 

Her  land's  redeeming  hour. 
With  the  glad  shout,  and  signal-flame, 

Sent  on  from  tower  to  tower! 
Fast  through  the  realm  a  spirit  moved — 
Txvas  hers,  the  lofty  and  the  loved. 

Then  was  her  name  a  note  that  rung 
To  rouse  bold  hearts  from  sleep, 

Her  memory,  as  a  banner  flung 
Forth  by  the  Baltic  deep; 

Her  grief,  a  bitter  vial  pour'd 

To  sanctify  th'  avenger's  sword. 

And  the  crown'd  eagle  spread  again 

His  pinion  to  the  sun  ; 
And  the  strong  land  shook  off  its  chain — 

So  was  the  triumph  won  I 
But  woe  for  earth,  where  sorrow's  tone 
Still  blends  with  victory's— SAe  was  gone ! 


THE  MEMORIAL  PILLAR. 


On  the  road-side  between  Penrith  and  Appleby,  str.nd§ 
a  small  pillar,  with  this  inscription :—"  This  pillar  wai 
erected  in  the  year  1656.  by  Ann,  Countess  Dowager  of 
Pembroke,  for  a  memorial  of  her  last  parting,  in  this 
place,  with  her  good  and  pious  mother,  Margaret, 
Countess  Dowager  of  Cumberland,  on  the  3d  April, 
I6I6."-See  Notes  to  the  "  Pleasures  of  Memory  " 


H»t  ttera,  Mmragh  Eden'i  wild-wood  nlei  panned 
Each  mountain-scene,  magnificently  rude, 
Nor  with  »ttention'«  lifted  eye,  revered 
That  modeit  itone,  by  pious  Pembroke  rear'd, 
Which  still  record!,  beycnd  the  pencil1!  power, 
The  silent  lorrowt  of  a  parting  hoar  ? 

Rogcn. 

MOTHER  and  child !  whose  blending  lean 

Have  sanctified  the  place. 
Where,  to  the  love  of  many  years, 

Wag  given  one  last  embrace ; 
Oh!  ye  have  shrined  a  spell  of  power, 
*>eep  in  your  record  of  that  hour ! 


A  spell  to  waken  solemn  thought, 

A  still,  small  uiider-tone, 
That  calls  back  days  of  childhood,  fraught 

With  many  a  treasure  gone; 
And  smites,  perchance,  the  hidden  source, 
Though  long  untroubled — of  remorse. 

For  who,  that  gazes  on  the  stone 
Which  marks  your  parting  spot, 

Who  but  a  mother's  love  hath  known 
The  one  love  changing  not  ? 

Alas  I  and  haply  learn'd  its  worth 

First  with  the  sound  of  "Earth  to  earth  T 

But  thou,  high-hearted  daughter!  thou, 
O'er  whose  bright,  honour'd  head, 

Blessings  and  tears  of  holiest  flow, 
Ev'n  here  were  fondly  shed, 

Thou  from  the  passion  of  thy  grief. 

In  its  full  burst,  couldst  draw  relief. 

For  oh  I  though  painful  be  th'  exceai, 
The  might  wherewith  it  swells, 

In  nature's  fount  no  bitterness 
Of  nature's  mingling,  dwells; 

And  thou  hadst  not,  by  wrong  or  pride. 

Poison'd  the  free  and  healthful  tide.  • 

But  didst  thou  meet  the  face  no  more 
Which  thy  young  heart  first  knew? 

And  all— was  all  in  this  world  o'er, 
With  ties  thus  close  and  true  ? 

It  was! — On  earth  no  other  eye 

Could  give  thee  back  thine  infancy. 

No  other  voice  could  pierce  the  maze 
Where  deep  within  thy  breast, 

The  sounds  and  dreams  of  other  days, 
With  memory  lay  at  rest ; 

No  other  smile  to  thee  could  bring 

A  gladd'ning,  like  the  breath  of  spring. 

Yet,  while  thy  place  of  weeping  still 

Its  lone  memorial  keeps. 
While  on  thy  name,  'midst  wood  and  bill, 

The  quiet  sunshine  sleeps, 
And  touches,  in  each  graven  line, 
Of  reverential  thought  a  sign; 

Can  I,  while  yet  these  tokens  wear 

The  impress  of  the  dead. 
Think  of  the  love  embodied  there, 

As  of  a  vision  fled  ? 
A  perish'd  thing,  the  joy  and  flower 
And  glory  of  one  earthl'y  hour? 

Not  so! — I  will  not  bow  me  so, 
To  thoughts  that  breathe  despair  I 

A  loftier  faith  we  need  below, 
Life's  farewell  words  to  bear. 

Mother  and  child  !— Your  tears  are  past — 

Surely  your  hearts  have  met  at  last  1 


THE  GRAVE  OF  A  POETESS.* 


"Ne  me  plaignez  pat— li  vous  taviex 
Combien  de  peinet  ce  tombeau  m'a  eparfneet  1* 


I  STOOD  beside  thy  lowly  grave  ; — 
Spring-odours  breathed  around, 

And  music,  in  the  river- wave, 
Pass'd  with  a  lulling  sound. 

All  happy  things  that  love  the  sun 
In  the  bright  air  glanced  by, 

And  a  glad  murmur  seem'd  to  run 
Through  the  soft  azure  sky. 

Fresh  leaves  were  on  the  ivy-bough 
That  fringed  the  ruins  near; 


•  Extrinsic  interest  has  lately  altached  to  the  fine  Kenery  of 
Woodstock,  near  Kilkenny,  on  account  of  its  having  been  the  last 
residence  of  the  author  of  Psyche.  Her  grave  is  one  of  many  in  th* 
eharch-yard  of  the  village.  The  river  runs  imoothly  by.  The  ruin 
ncient  abbey  that  has  been  partially  converted  into  a  churcn, 
tly  throw  their  mantle  of  tender  shadow  over  it.—  Tata  In 


of  an: 


he  UBa.ro.  Family. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


173 


Voting  voices  were  abroad — but  thou 
Their  sweetness  couldst  not  hear. 

And  mournful  grew  my  heart  for  thee, 
Thou  in  whose  woman's  mind, 

The  ray  that  brightens  earth  and  sea. 
The  light  of  song  was  shrined. 

Mournful,  that  thou  wert  slumbering  low, 

With  a  dread  curtain  drawn 
Between  thee  and  the  golden  glow 

Of  this  world's  vernal  dawn. 

Parted  from  all  the  song  and  bloom 
Thou  wouldst  have  loved  so  well. 

To  thee  the  sunshine  round  thy  tomb 
Was  but  a  broken  spell. 

The  bird,  the  insect  on  the  wing, 

In  their  bright  reckless  play, 
Might  feel  the  flush  and  life  of  spring,— 

And  thou  wert  pass'd  away  ! 

But  then,  ev'n  then,  a  nobler  thought 

O'er  my  vain  sadness  came  ; 
Th'  immortal  spirit  woke,  and  wrought 

Within  my  thrilling  frame. 

Surely  on  lovelier  things,  I  said, 
Thou  must  have  look'd  ere  now, 

rhan  all  that  round  our  pathway  shed 
Odour*  and  hues  below.  • 

The  shadows  of  the  tomb  are  here, 

Yet  beautiful  is  earth  I 
What  seest  thou  then  where  no  dim  fear, 

No  haunting  dream,  hath  birth? 

Here  a  vain  love  to  passing  flowers 
Thou  gay 'st— but  where  thou  art, 

The  sway  is  not  with  changeful  hours, 
There  love  and  death  must  part. 

Thou  hast  left  sorrow  in  thy  song, 

A  voice  not  loud,  but  deep  I 
The  glorious  bowers  of  earth  among, 

Bow  often  didst  thou  weep  I 


Where  couldst  thou  fix  on  mortal  ground 
Thy  tender  thoughts  and  high  ? — 

Now  peace  the  woman's  heart,  hath  found, 
And  joy  the  poet's  eye. 

NOTES  TO  RECORDS  OF  WOMAN. 
NOTE  1. 

When  darlmeafrom  the  vainly-doting  light, 

Covert  itt  beautiful ! 

"  Wheresoever  you  are,  or  in  what  state  soever  you  be,  it  niffinth 
me  you  are  mine.  Rachel  t«pf,  and  would  not  be  comforted,  tt 
eaun  her  children  were  no  more.  And  that,  indeed,  is  the  ramedilesi 
sorrow,  and  none  else  !"— From  a  letter  of  Arabella  Stuart's  to  her 
husband.— See  Curiosities  of  Literature. 

NOTE  2. 

Death ! — what,  it  death  a  locVd  and  treatured  thing, 
Guarded  by  twordi  of  fire  f 

"  And  If  you  remember  of  old,  /  dare  die. — Consider  what  th« 
world  would  conceive,  if  I  should  be  violently  enforced  to  do  it."— 
Fragmenti  of  her  Letter i. 

NOTE  3. 

And  her  lovely  thought!  from  their  edit  found  way, 
In  the  ntddenflow  of  a  plaintive  lay. 

A  Greek  Bride,  on  leaving  her  father's  house,  take*  leave  of  her 
friend*  and  relatives  frequently  in  extemporaneous  verse.  —  Sea 
Fauriel's  Chants  Fopulaires  de  la  Grece  Moderne. 

NOTE  4. 

And  loved  when  they  ihould  hate — like  thee,  Imelda. 
The  tale  of  Imelda  is  related  in  Sismondi's  Histoire  des  Repot 
liines  iMienne.    Vol.  iii.  p.  443. 

NOTE  5. 

Father  of  ancient  water!  rottt 
"  Father  of  waters,"  the  Indian  name  for  the  Mississippi. 

NOTE  6. 

And  to  the  Fairy'i  fountain  in  the  glade. 
A  beautiful  fountain  near  Domremi,  believed  to  be  haunted  by 
fairies,  and  a  favourite  resort  of  Jeanne  d'Arc  in  her  childhood. 

NOTB  7. 

But  loveliest  far  amidit  the  reveTt  pride, 
Wai  the,  the  Lady  from  the  Danube-tide. 
The  Princes*  Pauline  Schwartienberz.    The  story  of  h«  f»t«  ft 
beautifully  related  in  L'Allenugne.    Vol.  iii.  p.  336. 


SONGS 


OF 


THE   AFFECTIONS. 


They  tell  but  dreams — a  lonely  spirit's  dreams— 
Tet  ever  through  their  fleeting  imagery- 
Wanders  a  vein  of  melancholy  love, 
An  aimless  thought  of  home : — as  in  the  song 
Of  the  caged  skylark  ye  may  deem  there  dwells 
A  passionate  memory  of  bine  skies  and  flow«rt, 
Aid  living  streams — far  off  1 


SONGS   OF  THE   AFFECTIONS. 


A  SPIRIT'S  RETURN. 


This  is  to  be  a  mortal, 
And  Kek  the  things  beyond  mortality  ! 

Manfred. 

THY  voice  prevails ;  dear  Friend,  my  gentle  Friend 
T'.is  long  shut  heart  for  thee  shall" he  unseal'd, 
And  though  thy  soft  eye  mournfully  will  bend 
Ovsr  the  troubled  stream,  yet  once  reveal'd 
Shall  its  freed  waters  flow  ;  then  rocks  must  clow 
For  evermore,  above  their  dark  repose. 

Come  while  the  gorgeous  mysteries  of  the  sky 

F  is.'d  in  the  crimson  sea  of  sunset  lie  ; 

Come  to  the  woods,  where  all  strange  wandering 

sound 

Is  mingled  into  harmomy  profound  ; 
Where  the  leaves  thrill  with  spirit,  while  the  wind 
Fills  with  a  viewless  being,  unconfinpd, 
The  trembling  reeds  and  fountains;  — Our  own  dell. 
With  its  green  dimness  and  ^Kolian  breath, 
Shall  suit  th'  unveiling  of  dark  records  well — 
Hear  me  in  tenderness  and  silent  faith  ! 

Thou  knew'st  me  not  in  life's  fresh  vernal  noon — 
I  would  thou  hadst ! — for  then  my  heart  on  thine 
Had  pour'd  a  worthier  love;  now,  all  o'erworn 
By  its  deep  thirst  for  something  too  divine, 
It  hath  but  fitful  music  to  bestow, 
Echoes  of  harp-strings,  broken  long  ago. 

Yet  even  in  youth  companionless  I  stood, 
As  a  lone  forest-bird  midst  ocean's  foam  ; 
For  me  the  silver  cords  of  brotherhood 
Were  early  loosed ;  the  voices  from  my  horn* 
Pass'd  one  by  one,  and  Melody  and  Mirth 
Left  me  a  dreamer  by  a  silent  hearth. 

But  with  the  fullness  of  a  heart  that  burn'd 
For  thedetp  sympathies  of  mind,  I  turn'd 
From  that  unanswering  spot,  and  fondly  sought 
In  all  wild  scenes  with  thrilling  memories  fraught, 
In  every  still  small  voice  and  sound  of  power, 
And  flute-note  of  the  wind  through  cave  and 

bower, 

A  perilous  delight  ! — for  then  first  woke 
My  life's  lone  passion,  the  mysterious  quest 
Of  secret  knowledge ;  and  each  tone  that  broke 
From  the  wood-arches  or  the  fountain's  breast, 
Making  my  quick  soul  vibrate  as  a  lyre, 
But  miuister'd  to  that  strange  inborn  fire. 

'Midst  the  bright  silence  of  the  mountain-dells, 
In  noonti;!e  hours  or  golden  summer-eves, 
My  thoughts  have  burst  forth  as  a  gale  that  swells 
Into  a  rushing  blast,  and  from  the  leaves 
Shakes  out  response  --O  thou  rich  world  unseen  ! 
Thou  curtain'd  realm  of  spirits  !— Thus  my  cry 
Hath  troubled  air  and  silence — dost  thou  lie 
Soread  all  around,  yet  by  some  filmy  screen 

12 


Shut  from  us  ever?— The  resounding  woods, 

Do  their  depths  teem  with  marvels  ?  — and  the 

floods, 

And  the  pure  fountains,  leading  secret  veins 
Of  quenchless  melody  through  rock  and  hill, 
Have  they  bright  dwellers  ?  —  are  th«  ir  lone  do 

mains 

Peopled  with  beauty,  which  may  never  still 
Our  weary  thirst  of  soul  ?— Cold,  wea.i  and  cold 
Is  Earth's  vain  language,  piercing  not  one  MA 
Of  our  deep  being  !— Oh,  for  gifts  mru  high  ! 
For  a  seer's  glance  to  rend  mortality  I 
For  a  charm'd  rod,  to  call  from  each  lark  shrine, 
The  oracles  divine  1 

I  woke  from  those  high  fantasies,  to  know 
My  kindred  with  the  Earth— I  woke  to  love; 
O,  gentle  Friend  !  to  love  in  doubt  and  woe, 
Shutting  the  heart  the  worshipped  nnme  above, 
Is  to  love  deeply — and  my  spirit's  dower 
Was  a  sad  gilt,  a  melancholy  power 
Of  so  adoring; — with  a  buried  care, 
And  with  the  o'erflowing  of  a  voiceless  prayer 
And  with  a  deepening  dream,  that  day  by  day, 
In  the  still  shadow  of  its  lonely  sway. 
Folded  me  closer;— till  the  world  held  naught 
Save  the  one  Being  to  my  centred  thought. 
There  was  no  music  but  his  voice  to  hear, 
No  joy  but  such  as  with  his  step  drew  near; 
Light  was  but  where  he  look'd— life  where  he 

moved — 

Silently,  fervently,  thus,  thus  I  loved. 
Oh!  but  such  love  is  fearful !— and  I  knew 
Its  gathering  doom:— the  soul's  prophetic  sight 
Even  then  unfolded  in  my  breast,  and  threw 
O'er  all  things  round,  a  full,  strong,  vivid  light, 
Too  sorrowfully  clear!— an  under-lone 
Was  given  to  Nature's  harp,  for  me  alone 
Whispering  of  grief.— Of  grief  ?-be  strong,  awake1 
Hath  not  thy  love  been  victory,  O,  my  soul  ? 
Hath  not  its  conflict  won  a  voice  to  shake 
Death's  fastnesses  ?— a  magic  to  control 
Worlds  far  removed ?— from  o'er  the  grave  to  the« 
Love  hath  made  answer;  and  thy  tale  should  be 
Sung  like  a  lay  of  triumph!— Now  return, 
And  take  thy  treasure  from  its  bosom'd  urn, 
And  lift  it  once  to  light  I 

In  fear,  in  pain, 

I  said  I  loved— but  yet  a  heavenly  strain 
Of  sweetness  floated  down  the  tearful  stream, 
A  joy  flash'd  through  the  trouble  of  my  dream ! 
I  knew  myself  beloved!— we  breathed  no  vow, 
iVo  mingling  visions  might  our  fate  allow, 
At 'into  happy  hearts;  but  still  and  deep. 
Like  a  rich  jewel  gleaming  in  a  grave, 
Like  golden  sand  in  some  dark  river's  w#ve. 
So  did  my  soul  that  costly  knowledge  keep 
So  jealously !— a  thing  o'er  which  to  shed, 
When  stars  alone  beheld  the  drooping  head, 
Lone  tears!  yet  ofttimes  burden'd  with  th'  ezc«M 
Of  our  strange  nature's  quiverine  happiness. 
(177) 


ITS 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But,  oh !  sweet   Friend !  we  dream  not  of  love's 

night 

Till  Death  has  robed  with  soft  and  solemn  light 
The  image  we  enshrine! — Before  that  hour, 
We  have  but  glimpses  of  the  o'ermastering  power 
Within  us  laid  !— then  doth  the  spirit-flame 
With  sword-like  lightning  rend  its  mortal  frame ; 
The  wings  of  that  which  pants  to  follow  fast, 
Shake  their  clay-bars,  as  with  a  prison'd  blast,— 
The  sea  is  in  cur  soul?1 

He  died,  he  died. 

On  whom  my  lone  devotedness  was  cast  • 
1  might  not  keep  one  vigil  by  his  side, 
/  whose  wrung  heart  watch'd  with  him  to  the 

last! 

I  might  not  once  his  fainting  head  sustain, 
Nor  tiathe>his  parch'd  lip-  in  the  hour  of  pain, 
Nor  say  to  him.  "  Farewell !"— He  pass'd  away— 
O!  had  my  love  been  there,  its  conquering  sway 
Had  won  him  back  from  death! — but  thus  removed, 
Borne  o'er  the  abyss  no  sounding-line  hath  proved, 
Join'd  with  the  unknown,  the  viewless, — he  be- 
came 

Unto  my  thoughts  another,  yet  the  same — 
Changed— hallow'd—  glorified!— and  his  low  grave 
Seem'd  a  bright  mournful  altar— mine,  all  mine:— 
Brother  and  Friend  soon  left  me  that  sole  shrine, 
The  birthright  of  the  Faithful!— their  world's  wave 
Soon  swept  them  from  its  brink.— Oh!  deem  thou 

not 

That  on  the  sad  and  consecrated  spot 
My  soul  grew  weak!— I  tell  thee  that  a  power 
There  kindled  heart  and  lip;— a  fiery  shower 
My  words  were  made;— a  might  was  given  to 

prayer. 

And  a  strong  grasp  to  passionate  despair, 
And    a   dread  triumph!— Know'st  thou  what  I 

sought  ? 

For  what  high  boon  my  struggling  spirit  wrought? 
—Communion  with  the  dead !— I  sent  a  cry 
Through  the  veil'd  empires  of  eternity, 
A  voice  to  cleave  them !    By  the  mournful  truth, 
By  the  lost  promise  of  my  blighted  youth. 
By  the  strong  chain  a  mighty  love  can  bind 
On  the  beloved,  the  spell  of  mind  o'er  mind; 
By  words,  which  in  themselves  are  magic  high, 
Arm'd,  and  inspired,  and  wing'd  with  agony; 
By  tears,  which  comfort  not,  hut  burn,  and  seem 
To  bear  the  hi 'art's  blood  in  their  passion-stream; 
I  sumnion'd,  I  adjured!— with  quicken'd  sense, 
With  tin;  keen  vigil  of  a  life  intense, 
I  watch'd,  a:i  answer  from  the  winds  to  wring, 
I  listen'd,  if  perchance 'the  stream  might  bring 
Token  from  worlds  afar:  I  taught  one  sound 
Unto  a  thousand  echoes:  one  profound 
Imploring  accent  to  the  tomb,  the  sky ; 
One  prayer  to  night,—"  Awake,  appear,  reply  1" 

Hast  thou  been  told  that  from  the  viewless  bourne, 
The  dark  way  never  hath  allow'd  return  ? 
That  all,  which  tears  can  move,  with  life  is  fled, 
That  earthly  love  is  powerless  on  the  dead? 
Believe  it  not!— there  is  a  large  lone  star, 
Now  burning  o'er  yon  western  hill  afar, 
And  under  its  clear  light  tlure  lies  a  spot. 
Which  well  might  utter  forth — Believe  it  not  1 

I  sat  beneath  that  planet, — I  had  wept 
My  woe  to  stillness;  every  night-wind  slept; 
A  hush  was  on  the  hills  ;  the  very  streams 
Wont  by  like  clouds,  or  noiseless  founts  in  dreams 
And  the  dark  tree  o'ershadowing  me  that  hour. 
Stood  motionless,  even  as  the  gray  church-tower 
Whereon  I  gazed  unconsciously : — there  came 
A  low  sound,  like  the  tremour  of  a  flame, 
Or  like  the  light  quick  shiver  of  a  wing 
Flitting  through  twilight  woods,  across  the  air; 
And  I  look'd  up!— Oh!  for  strong  words  to  bring 
Conviction  o'er  thy  thought ! — Before  me  there, 
He,  the  Departed,  stood  !— Aye,  face  to  face- 
So  near,  and  yet  how  far !— his  form,  his  mien, 
Oave  to  remembrance  back  each  burning  trace 
Within  :— Yet  something  awfully  serene, 
Pure,— sculpture-like,  — on  the  pale  brow  that  wore 
'>f  the  once  beating  heart  no  token  more  ; 


And  stillness  on  the  lip— and  o'er  the  hair 

A  gleam,  that  trembled  through  the  breathless  ait 

And  an  unfathom'd  calm,  that  seeni'd  to  lie 

In  the  grave  sweetness  of  the  illumined  eye 

Told  of  the  gulfs  between  our  being  set, 

And,  as  that  unsheathed  spirit-glance  I  met, 

Made  my  soul  faint  :—  with  fear  7— Oh  !  not  .viU 

fear! 

With  the  sick  feeling  that  in  his  far  sphere 
My  love  could  be  as  nothing ! — But  he  spoke — 
How  shall  I  tell  thee  of  the  startling  thrill 
In  that  low  voice,  whose  breezy  tones  could  fill 
My  bosom's  infinite?— O  Friend.  I  woke 
Then  first  to  heavenly  life  !— Soft,  solemn,  clea», 
Breathed  the  mysterious  accents  on  mine  ear, 
Yet  strangely  seem'd  as  if  the  while  they  rosn 
From  depths  of  distance,  o'er  the  wide  repose 
Of  slumbering  waters  wafted,  or  the  dells 
Of  mountains,  hollow  with  sweet  echo-cells  , 
But,  as  they  murmur'd  on,  the  mortal  chill 
PassM  from  me,  like  a  mist  before  the  morn, 
And,  to  that  glorious  intercourse  upborne, 
By  slow  degrees,  a  calm,  divinely  still, 
Pujisecs'd  rny  frame: — I  sought  that  lighted  eye,— 
From  its  intense  and  searching  purity 
I  .rank  in  ioul! — I  question'd  of  the  dead — 
Of  the  hush'd,  starry  shores  their  footsteps  tread — 
And  I  was  inswer'd :— if  remembrance  there, 
With  dreamy  whispers  fill  the  immortal  air ; 
If  Thought,  here  piled  from  many  a  jewel-heap, 
Be  treasure  in  that  pensive  land  to  keep  ; 
If  Love,  o'ersweeping  change,  and  blight,  anc 

blast, 

Find  there  the  music  of  his  home  at  last ; 
I  ask'd,  and  I  was  answer'd  :—  Full  and  high 
Was  that  communion  with  eternity, 
Too  rich  for  aught  so  fleeting  ! — Like  a  knell 
Swept  o'er  my  sense  its  closing  words, — "  Farewell, 
On  earth  we  meet  no  more  !"— and  all  was  gone — 
The  pale  bright  settled  brow— the  thrilling  tone— 
The  still  and  shining  eye  ! — and  never  more 
May  twilight  gloom  or  midnight  hush  restore 
That  radiant  guest!  — One  full-fraught   hour  of 

Heaven, 

To  earthly  passion's  wild  implorings  given, 
Was  made  niy  own — the  ethereal  fire  hath  shiver'<V  . 
The  fragile  censer  in  whose  mould  it  quiver'd. 
Brightly,  consumingly  ! — What  now  is  left  ? — 
A  faded  world,  of  glory's  hues  bereft, 
A  void,  a  chain! — I  dwell  'midst  throngs,  apart, 
In  the  cold  silence  of  the  stranger's  heart ; 
A  fix'd,  immortal  shadow  stands  between 
My  spirit  and  life's  fast-receding  scene  ; 
A  gift  hath  sever'd  me  from  human  ties, 
A  power  is  gone  from  all  earth's  melodies, 
Which  never  may  return  :  —  their  chords  are  bro 

ken— 

The  music  of  another  land  hath  spoken,— 
No  after-sound  is  sweet !— this  w<iary  thirst  !— 
And  I  have  heard  celestial  fountains  burst ! — 
What  here  shall  quench  it  ? 

Dost  thou  not  rejoice, 

Wnen  the  spring  sends  forth  an  awakening  voice 
Through  the  young  woods  ? — Thou  dost !— And  in 

that  birth 

Of  early  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  songs  of  mirth, 
Thousands,  like  th-»e,  find  gladness !— Couldst  thou 

•  know 

How  every  breeze  then  summons  me  to  go  I 
How  all  the  light  of  love  and  beauty  shed 
By  those  rich  hours,  but  wooes  me  to  the  Dead ! 
The  only  beautiful  that  change  no  more, 
The  only  loved  !— the  dwellers  on  the  shote 
Of  spring  fulfill'd  !— The  Dead  '.—whom  call  we  sc  ? 
They  that  breathe  purer  air,  that  feel,  that  know 
Things  wrapt  from  us !—  Away  !— within  me  pent, 
That  which  is  barr'd  from  its  own  element 
Still  droops  or  struggles  ! — But  the  day  mill  come — 
Over  the  deep  the  free  bird  finds  its  home, 
And  the  stream  lingers  'midst  the  rocks,  ytl  greeti 
The  sea  at  last ;  and  the  wing'ri  flower-seed  meets 
A  soil  to  rest  in  : — shall  not  I,  too,  be. 
My  sj)irit-love  !  upborne  to  dwell  with  thee  ? 
Y»       Sy   the   power   whose  conquering  anguiaJj 

stirr'd 
The  tomb,  whose  cry  beyond  the  stars  was  heard. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


179 


Whose  agony  of  triumph  won  thee  hack 
Through  the  dim  pass  no  mortal  step  may  track. 
Yet  shall  we  meet !— that  glimpse  of  joy  divine, 
Proved  thee  for  ever  and  for  ever  mine! 


THE  LADY  OF  PROVENCE.' 

Courage  was  cast  about  her  like  a  dress 

Of  solemn  comeliness, 
A  gather'd  mind  and  an  untroubled  face 

Did  give  her  dangers  grace. 

Dannt. 

THE  war-note  of  the  Saracen 
Was  on  the  winds  of  France ; 

It  had  still'd  the  harp  of  the  Troubadour, 
And  the  clash  of  the  tourney's  lance. 

The  sounds  of  the  sea,  and  the  sounds  of  the  night 
And  the  hollow  echoes  of  charge  and  flight, 
Were  around  Clotilde,  as  she  knelt  to  pray 
In  a  chapel  where  the  mighty  lay. 

On  the  old  Provencal  shore; 
Many  a  Chatillon  beneath, 
Unstirr'd  by  the  ringing  trumpet's  breath, 

His  shroud  of  armour  wore. 
And  the  glimpses  of  moonlight  that   went   anc 

came 

Through  the  clouds,  like  bursts  of  a  dying  flame, 
Gave  quivering  life  to  the  slumber  pale 
Of  stern  forms  couch'd  in  their  marble  mail, 
At  rest  on  the  tombs  of  the  knightly  race, 
The  silent  throngs  of  that  burial-place. 

They  were  imaged  there  with  helm  and  spear, 
As  leaders  in  many  a  bold  career. 
And  haughty  their  stillness  look'd  and  high. 
Like  a  sleep  whose  dreams  were  of  victory  ; 
But  meekly  the  voice  of  the  lady  rose 
Through  the  trophies  of  their  proud  repose ; 
Meekly,  yet  fervently,  calling  down  aid. 
Under  their  banners  of  battle  she  pray'd; 
With  her  pale  fair  brow,  and  her  eyes  of  love, 
I 'praised  to  the  Virgin's  pnurtray'd  above, 
And  her  hair  flung  back,  till  it  swept  the  grave 
Of  a  Chatillon  with  its  gloomy  wave. 
And  her  fragile  frame,  at  every  blast. 
That  full  of  the  savage  war-horn  pass'd, 
Trembling,  as  trembles  a  bird's  quick  heart, 
When  it  vainly  strives  from  its  cage  to  part, — 

So  knelt  she  in  her  woe  ; 
A  weeper  alone  with  the  tearless  dead — 
Oh !  they  reck  not  of  tears  o'er  their  quiet  sted, 

Or  the  dust  had  stirr'd  below  ! 

Hark !  a  swift  step !  she  hath  caught  its  tone, 
Through  the  dash  of  the  sea,  through  the  wild 

wind's  moan  ; — 

Is  her  lord  return'd  with  his  conquering  bands? 
No!  a  breathless  vassal  before  her  stands! 
—"Hast  thou  been  on  the  field  ?— Art  thou  come 

from  the  host?" 

—"From  the  slaughter,  lady!— All,  all  is  lost! 
Our  banners  are  taken,  our  knights  laid  low, 
Our  spearmen  chased  by  the  Paynim  foe, 
And  thy  Lord,"  his  voice  took  a  sadder  sound— 
"  Thy  Lord— he  is  not  on  the  bloody  ground ! 
There  are  those  who  tell  that  the  leader's  plume 
Was  seen  on  the  flight  through  the  gathering 

gloom." 

—A  change  o'er  her  mien  and  her  spirit  past; 

She  ruled  the  heart  which  had  beat  so  fast, 

She  riash'd  the  tears  from  her  kindling  eye, 

With  a  glance,  as  of  sudden  royalty  : 

The  proud  blood  sprang  in  a  fiery  flow, 

Quick  o'er  bosom,  and  cheek,  and  brow, 

And  her  young  voice  rose  till  the  peasant  shook 

At  the  thrilling  tone  and  the  falcon-look  . 

— "  Dost  thou  stand  by  the  tombs  of  the  gloriout 

dead, 
And  fear  not  to  say,  that  their  son  hath  fled  ? 

Founded  on  in  incident  ia  the  early  French  historv 


— Away!  he  is  lying  by  lance  and  shield, — 
Point  me  the  path  to  his  battle-field  1" 

The  shadows  of  the  forest 

Arc  about  the  lady  now ; 
She  is  hurrying  through  the  midnight  on, 

Beneath  the  dark  pine  bough. 

There 's  a  murmur  of  omens  in  every  leaf, 
There's  a  wail  in  the  stream  like  the  dirge  of  a 

chief; 

The  branches  that  rock  to  the  tempest-strife, 
Are  groaning  like  things  of  troubled  life; 
The  wind  from  the  battle  seems  rushing  by 
With  a  funeral  march  through  The  gloomy  sky  • 
The  pathway  is  rugged,  and  wild,  and  long, 
But  her  frame  in  the  daring  of  love  is  strong, 
And  her  soul  as  on  swelling  seas  upborne, 
And  girded  all  fearful  things  to  scorn. 

And  fearful  things  were  around  her  spread, 
When  she  reach'd  the  field  of  the  warrior-dead , 
There  lay  the  noble,  the  valiant,  low — 
Ay  !  but  one  word  speaks  of  deeper  woe; 
There  lay  the  loved — on  each  fallen  head 
Mothers  vain  blessings  and  tears  had  shed, 
Sisters  were  watching  in  many  a  home 
For  the  fetter'd  footstep,  no  more  to  come ; 
Names  in  the  prayer  of  that  night  were  spoken 
Whose  claim  unto  kindred  prayer  was  broken ; 
And  the  tire  was  heap'd,   and   the   bright  wine 

pour'd, 

For  those,  now  needing  nor  hearth  nor  hoard: 
Only  a  requiem,  a  shroud,  a  knell, 
And  oh!  ye  beloved  of  woman,  farewell 

Silently,  with  lips  compress'd. 
Pale  hands  clasp'd  above  her  breast, 
Stately  brow  of  anguish  high. 
Death-like  cheek,  but  dauntless  eye; 
Silently,  o'er  that  red  plain, 
Moved  the  lady  'midst  the  slain. 

Sometimes  it  seem'd  as  a  charging  cry. 
Or  thp  rinsing  tramp  of  a  steed,  came  nigh 
Sometimes  a  blast  of  the  Paynim  horn, 
Sudden  and  shrill  from  the  mountains  borne  , 
And  her  maidens  trembled; — but  on  her  ear 
No  meaning  fell  with  those  sounds  of  fear; 
They  had  less  of  mastery  to  shake  her  now, 
Than  the  quivering,  erewhile,  of  an  aspen  bough 
She  search'd  into  many  an  unclosed  eye, 
That  look'd,  without  soul,  to  the  starry  sky; 
She  bow'd  down  o'er  many  a  shatter'd  breast, 
She  lifted  up  helmet  and  cloven  crest — 

Not  there,  not  there  he  lay  ! 
"  Lead  where  the  most  hath  been  dared  and  done, 
Where  the  heart  of  the  battle  hath  bled, — lead  on !" 

And  the  vassal  took  the  way. 

He  turn'd  to  a  dark  and  lonely  tree 
That  waved  o'er  a  fountain  red ; 

Oh!  swiftest  there  had  the  currents  free, 
From  noble  veins  been  shed. 

Thickest  there  the  spear-heads  gleam'd, 
And  the  scatter'd  plumage  stream'd, 
And  the  broken  shields  were  toss'd, 
And  the  shiver'd  lances  cross'd, 
And  the  mail-clad  sleepers  round 
Made  the  harvest  of  that  ground. 

He  was  there !  the  leader  amidst  his  band, 
Where  the  faithful  had  made  their  last  vain  • 
He  was  there !  but  affection's  glance  alone 
The  darkly-changed  in  that  hour  had  knowr 
With  the  falchion  yet  in  his  cold  hand  gras? 
And  a  banner  of  France  to  his  bosom  clasp 
And  the  form  that  of  conflict  bore  fearful  t 
And  the  face — oh!  speak  not  of  that  dead 
As  it  lay  to  answer  love's  look  no  more. 
Yet  never  so  proudly  loved  before  ! 
She  quell'd  in  her  soul  the  deep  floods  of  w 
The  time  was  not  yet  for  their  waves  to  fl« 
She  felt  the  full  presence,  the  might  of  des 
Yet  there  came  no  sob  with  her  struggling 
And  a  proud  smile  shone  o'er  her  pale  despair, 
As  she  turn'd  to  his  followers— "  Your  Lord  if 
there ! 


180 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Look  on  him!  know  him  by  scarf  and  crest!— 
Bear  him  away  with  his  sires  to  rest  I" 

Another  day — another  night — 

And  the  sailor  on  the  deep 
Hears  the  low  chant  of  a  funeral  rite 

From  the  lordly  chapel  sweep . 

It  come*  with  a  broken  and  muffled  tone, 

AB  if  that  rite  were  in  terror  done; 

Yet  the  songs  'midst  the  seas  hath  a  thrilling 

power, 
And  he  knows  't  is  a  chieftain's  burial  hour. 

Hurriedly,  in  fear  and  woe, 
Through  the  aisle  the  mourners  go ; 
With  a  hush'd  and  stealthy  tread, 
Bearing  on  the  noble  dead, 
Sheathed  in  armour  of  the  field- 
Only  his  wan  face  reveal'd, 
Whence  the  still  and  solemn  gleam 
Doth  a  strange  sad  contrast  seem 
To  the  anxious  eyes  of  that  pale  band, 
With  torches  wavering  in  every  hand, 
For  theydreadeachmomentthe  shout  of  war, 
And  the  burst  of  the  Moslem  scimitar. 

There  is  no  plumed  head  o'er  the  bier  to  bend. 

No  brother  of  battle,  no  princely  friend , 

No  sound  comes  back  like  the  sounds  of  yore, 

Unto  sweeping  swords  from  the  marble  floor  ; 

By  the  red  fountain  the  valiant  lie, 

The  flower  of  Provencal  chivalry, 

But  one  free  step,  and  one  lofty  heart, 

Bear  through  that  scene,  to  the  last,  their  part 

She  hath  led  the  death-train  of  the  brave 
To  the  verge  of  his  own  ancestral  grave; 
She  hath  held  o'er  her  spirit  long  rigid  sway, 
But  the  struggling  passion  must  now  have  way. 
In  the  cheek,  half  seen  through  her  mourning  veil, 
By  turns  does  tho  swift  blood  flush  and  fail ; 
The  pride  on  the  lip  is  lingerine  still, 
But  it  shakes  as  a  flame  to  the  blast  might  thrill ; 
Anguish  and  Triumph  are  met  at  strife, 
Rending  the  chords  of  her  frail  young  life; 
And  she  sinks  at  last  on  her  warrior's  bier, 
Lifting  her  voice,  as  if  Death  might  hear. — 

"  I  have  won  thy  fame  from  the  breath  of  wrong, 

My  soul  hath  risen  for  thy  glory  strong! 

Now  call  me  hence,  by  thy  side  to  be, 

The  world  thou  leavest  has  no  place  for  me. 

The  light  goes  with  thee,  the  joy,  the  worth — 

Faithful  and  tender!  Oh!  call  me  forth! 

Give  me  my  home  on  thy  noble  heart, — 

Well  have  we  loved,  let  us  both  depart !" 

And  pale  on  the  breast  of  the  Dead  she  lay, 
The  living  cheek  to  the  cheek  of  clay  ; 
The  living-  cheek  ! — Oh !  it  was  not  vain, 
That  strife  of  tlie  spirit  to  rend  its  chain  ; 
She  is  there  at  rest  in  her  place  of  pride, 
In  death  how  queen-like — a  glorious  bride! 

[oy  for  the  freed  One !— she  might  not  stay 

•Vhen  the  crown  had  fallen  from  her  life  away ; 

!he  might  not  linger — a  weary  thing, 

1  dove,  with  no  home  for  its  broken  wing, 

Thrown  on  the  harshness  of  alien  skies, 

That  know  not  its  own  land's  melodies. 

from  the  long  heart-withering  early  gone ; 

UK:  hath  lived— she  hath  loved— her  task  is  done ! 


THE  CORONATION  OF  INEZ  DE  CASTRO. 


Tableau,  on  I'Amonr  fait  alliance  avee  la  Tombe :  ratal  ndott 
table  de  la  mort  et  de  la  vie  '.—Madame  de  Stud. 


THERE  was  music  on  the  midnight  ;— 

From  a  royal  fane  it  roll'd. 
And  a  mighty  bell,  each  pause  between, 

Sternly  and  slowly  toll'd 


Strange  was  their  mingling  in  the  sky, 

It  hush'd  the  listener's  breath ; 
For  the  music  spoke  of  triumph  high. 

The  lonely  hell,  of  death. 

There  was  hurrying  through  the  midnight— 

A  sound  of  many  feet  • 
But  they  fell  with  a  muffled  fearfulnesa, 

Along  the  shadowy  street: 
And  softer,  fainter,  grew  their  tread, 

As  it  near'd  the  minster-gate, 
Whence  a  broad  and  solemn  light  was  shed 

From  a  scene  of  royal  state. 

Full  glow'd  the  strong  red  radiance, 

In  the  centre  of  the  na*e. 
Where  the  folds  of  a  purple  canopy 

Swept  down  in  many  a  wave ; 
Loading  the  marble  pavement  old 

With  a  weight  of  gorgeous  gloom, 
For  something  lay  'midst  their  fretted  gold, 

Like  a  shallow  of  the  tomb. 

And  within  that  rich  pavilion, 

High  on  a  glittering  throne, 
A  woman's  form  sat  silently, 

'Midst  the  glare  of  light  alone 
Her  jewell'd  robes  fell  strangely  still — 

The  drapery  on  her  breast 
Seem'd  with  no  pulse  beneath  to  thrill, 

So  stonelike  was  its  rest ! 

But  a  peal  of  lordly  music 

Shook  e'en  the  dust  below, 
When  the  burning  gold  of  the  diadem 

Was  set  on  her  pallid  brow  1 
Then  died  away  that  haughty  sound. 

And  from  the  encircling  band 
Slept  Prince  and  Chief,  'midst  the  hush  profound, 

With  homage  to  her  hand. 

Why  pass'd  a  faint,  cold  shuddering 

Over  each  martial  frame, 
As  one  by  one,  to  touch  that  hand, 

Noble  and  leader  came  ? 
Was  not  the  settled  aspect  fair  ? 

Did  not  a  queenly  grace. 
Under  the  parted  ebon  hair, 

Sit  on  tlie  pale  still  face  ? 

Death  !  Death  !  canst  thou  be  lovely 

Unto  the  eye  of  Life  ? 
Is  not.  each  pulse  of  the  quick  high  breast 

With  thy  cold  mien  at  strife? 
— It  was  a  strange  and  fearful  sight. 

The  crown  upon  that  head, 
The  glorious  robes,  and  the  blaze  of  light, 

All  gather'd  round  the  Dead  ! 

And  beside  her  stood  in  silence 

One  with  a  brow  as  pale, 
And  white  lips  rigidly  compress'd. 

Lest  the  strong  heart  should  fair 
King  Pedro,  with  a  jealous  eye, 

Watching  the  homage  done, 
By  thfc  land's  flower  and  chivalry, 

To  her,  his  martyr'd  one. 

But  on  the  face  he  look'd  not, 

Which  once  his  star  had  been  ; 
To  every  form  his  glance  was  turn'd, 

Save  of  the  breathless  queen : 
Tho'  something,  won  from  the  grave's  embrace 

Of  her  beauty  still  was  there, 
Its  hues  were  all  of  that  shadowy  place, 

It  was  not  for  him  to  bear. 

Alas !  the  crown,  the  sceptre, 

The  treasures  of  the  earth. 
And  the  priceless  love  that  pour'd  those  gifU, 

Alike  of  wasted  worth ! 
The  rites  are  closed : — bear  back  the  Dead 

Unto  the  chamber  deep ! 
Lay  down  again  the  royal  head, 

Dust  with  the  dust  to  sleep ! 

There  is  music  on  the  midnight — 

A  requiem  sad  and  slow, 
As  the  mourners  through  the  sounding  ai«l« 

In  dark  procession  go ; 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


181 


And  the  ring  of  state,  and  the  starry  crown, 

And  all  the  rich  array. 
Are  borne  to  the  house  of  silence  down. 

With  her,  that  queen  of  clay ! 

And  tearlessly  and  firmly 

King  Pedro  led  the  train, — 
But  his  face  was  wrapt  in  his  folding  robe. 

When  they  lower'd  the  dust  again. 
*T is  hush'il  at  last  the  tomb  above, 

Hymns  die,  and  steps  depart: 
Who  call'd  thee  strong  as  Death,  O  Love  ? 

Mightier  thou  wast  and  art. 


ITALIAN  GIRL'S  HYMN  TO  THE  VIRGIN 


O  sanctiwinia,  o  purissima ! 

Dulcil  Virgo  Maria, 
Mater  amala.  inteinerata, 

On,  ora  pro  nobi>. 

Sicilian  Marina1!  Hymn. 


IN  the  deep  hour  of  dreams, 
i   Through  the  dark  woods,  and  past  the  moaning  sea. 

And  by  the  star-light  gleams, 
Mother  of  Sorrows !  lo,  I  come  to  thee. 

Unto  thy  shrine  I  bear 
Night-blowing  flowers,  like  my  own  heart,  to  lie 

AH,  all  unfolded  there, 
Beneath  the  meekness  of  thy  pitying  eye 

For  thou,  that  once  didst  move. 
In  thy  still  beauty,  through  an  early  home, 

Thou  know'st  the  grief,  the  love. 
The  fear  of  woman's  soul ;  to  thee  I  come ! 

Many,  and  sad,  and  deep, 
Were  the  thoughts  folded  in  thy  silent  breast ; 

Thou,  too,  couldst  watch  and  weep — 
Hear,  gentlest  mother!  hear  a  heart  oppress'd  I 

There  is  a  wandering  burk 
Bearing  one  from  me  o'er  the  restless  waves ; 

Oh  1  let  thy  soft  eye  mark 
His  course  ;— be  with  him,  Holiest,  guide  and  save  I 

My  soul  is  on  that  way ; 
My  thoughts  are  travellers  o'er  the  waters  dim, 

Through  the  long  weary  day, 
1  walk,  o'ershadow'd  by  vain  dreams  of  him. 

Aid  him,  and  me,  too,  aid  1 
Oh  !  'tis  not  well,  this  earthly  love's  excess 

On  thy  weak  child  is  laid 
The  burden  of  too  deep  a  tenderness. 

Too  much  o'er  kirn  is  pour'd 
My  being's  hope— scarce  leaving  Heaven  a  part : 

Too  fearfully  adored, 
Oh  I  make  not  him  the  chastener  of  my  heart  1 

I  tremble  with  a  sense 
Of  grief  to  be  ;  I  hear  a  warning  low — 

Sweet  mother!  call  me  hence  ! 
This  wild  idolatry  must  end  in  woe. 

The  troubled  joy  of  life. 
Love's  lightning  happiness,  my  soul  hath  known  ; 

And,  worn  with  feverish  strife, 
Would  fold  its  wings  -—take  back,  take  back  thine 
own  I 

Hark  !  how  thn  wind  swept  by! 

The  tempest's  voice  comes  rolling  o'er  the  wave- 
Hope  of  the  sailor's  eye, 

And  maiden's  heart,  blest  mother,  guide  and  save  I 


TO  A  DEPARTED  SPIRIT. 

FROM  the  bright  stars,  or  from  the  viewless  air, 
Or  from  some  world  unreach'd  by  human  thought 
Spirit,  sweet  spirit !  it  thy  home  be  there, 


And  if  thy  visions  with  the  past  be  fraught, 

Answer  me,  answer  me  I 

Have  we  not  communed  here  with  life  and  death? 
Have  we  not  said  that  love,  such  love  as  ours, 
Was  not  to  perish  as  a  rose's  breath, 
To  melt  away,  like  song  from  festal  bowers  ? 

Answer,  oh  !  answer  me  ! 

Thine  eye's  last  light  was  mine— The  soul  that 

shone 

Intensely,  mournfully,  through  gathering  'laze  — 
Didst  thou  bear  with  thee  to  the  shore  unicnown, 
Naught  of  what  lived  in  that  long  earnest  gaze  .' 
Hear,  hear,  and  answer  me  I 

Thy  voice— its  low,  soft,  fervent,  farewell  tone 
Thrill'd  through  the  tempest  of  the  parting  strife, 
Like  a  faint  breeze :— oh  !  from  that  music  flown. 
Send  back  one  sound,  if  love's  be  quenchless  life. 
But  once,  oh !  answer  me  I 

In  the  still  noontide,  in  the  sunset's  .tush, 

In  the  dead  hour  of  night,  when  thought  grows 

deep. 

When  the  heart's  phantoms  from  the  darkness  rush 
Fearfully  beautiful,  to  strive  with  sleep- 
Spirit!  then  answer  me! 

By  the  remembrance  of  our  blended  prayer ; 
By  all  our  tears,  whose  mingling  made  them  sweet; 
By  our  last  hope,  the  victor  o'er  despair ; — 
Speak  !  if  our  souls  in  deathless  yearnings  meet  ; 
Answer  me,  answer  me  I 

The  grave  is  silent :— and  the  far-ofT  sky, 
And  the  deep  midnight— silent  all,  and  lonet 
Oh !  if  thy  buried  love  make  no  reply. 
What  voice  has  Earth  ? — Hear,  pity,  speak,  mine 
own! 

Answer  me,  answer  me  I 


THE  CHAMOIS  HUNTER'S  LOVE. 


For  all  his  wildnen  and  proud  fantaiiet, 
I  love  him ! 

Only. 

TUT  heart  is  in  the  upper  world,  where  fleet  the 

Chamois  bounds, 
Thy  heart  is  where  the  mountain-fir  shakes  to  the 

torrent-sounds ; 
And  where  the  snow-peaks  gleam  1  ike  stars,  through 

the  stillness  of  the  air. 
And  where  the  Lauwine's*  peal  is  heard — Hunter  ! 

thy  heart  is  there ! 

I  know  thou  lov'st  me  well,  dear  Friend !  but  bet- 
ter, better  far, 
Thou  lov'st  that  high  and  haughty  life,  with  rocks 

and  storms  at  war  ; 
In  the  green  sunny  vales  with  me.  thy  spirit  would 

but  pine — 
And  yet  I  will  be  thine,  my  Love !  and  yet  I  will 

be  thine ! 

And  I  will  not  seek  to  woo  thee  down  from  those 
thy  native  heights, 

With  the  sweet  song,  our  land's  own  song,  of  pas- 
toral delights ; 

For  thou  must  live  as  eagles  live,  thy  path  is  not 
as  mine=— 

And  yet  I  will  be  thine,  my  Love  !  and  ytt  I  will 
be  thine. 

And  I  will  leave  my  blessed  home,  my  Father's 

joyous  hearth. 
With  all  the  voices  meeting  there  in  tenderness 

and  mirth. 
With  all  the  kind  and  laughing  eyes,  that  in  its 

fire-light  shine, 
To  sit  forsaken  in  thy  hut,— yet  know  that  thou 

art  mine! 


*LauwiMt,  the  avalanche. 


.82 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


t  is  my  youth,  it  is  my  bloom,  it  is  my  glad  fre* 

heart, 
That  I  cast  away  for  thee — for  tbee — all  reckless 

as  tliou  art ! 
With  tremblings  and  with  vigils  lone,  I  bind  my 

self  to  dwell ; 
Yet,  yet  I  would  not  change  that  lot, — oh  no  1  1 

love  too  well ! 

A  mournful  thing  is  love  which  grows  to  one  so 

wild  as  thou, 
With  that  bright  restlessness  of  eye,  that  tameless 

fire  of  brow  ! 
Mournful ! — but  dearer  far  I  call  its  mingled  fear 

and  pride. 
And  the  trouble  of  its  happiness,  than  aught  on 

earth  beside. 

To  listen  for  thy  step  in  vain,  to  start  at  every 

breath, 
To  watch  through  long,  long  nights  of  storm,  to 

sleep  and  dream  of  death, 
To  wake  in  doubt  and  loneliness— this  doom  I 

know  is  mine, — 
And  yet  I  will  be  thine,  my  Love  I  and  yet  I  will 

be  thine ! 

That  I  may  greet  thee  from  thine  Alps,  when 

thence  thou  com'st  at  last, 
That  I  may  hear  thy  thrilling  voice  tell  o'er  each 

danger  past, 
That  I  may  kneel  and  pray  for  tbee,  and  win  thee 

aid  divine, — 
For  this  I  will  be  thine,  my  Love  I  for  this  1  will 

be  thine  I 


SONG  OF  EMIGRATION 


THERE  was  heard  a  song  on  the  chiming  sea, 

A  mingled  breathing  of  grief  and  glee; 

Man's  voice,  unbroken  by  sighs,  was  there. 

Filling  with  triumph  the  sunny  air; 

Df  fresh  green  lands,  and  of  pastures  new. 

It  sang,  while  the  bark  through  the  surges  flew. 

But  ever  and  anon 

A  murmur  of  farewell 
Told,  by  its  plaintive  tone. 

That  from  woman's  lip  it  fell. 

"Away,  away,  o'er  the  foaming  main !" 
— This  was  the  free  and  the  joyous  strain— 
"There  are  clearer  skies  than  ours,  afar, 
We  will  shape  our  course  by  a  brighter  star; 
There  are  plains  whose  verdure  no  foot  hath  pressed, 
And  whose  wealth  is  all  for  the  first  brave  guest." 

"  But  alas !  that  we  should  go" 
—  Sang  the  farewell  voices  then — 

"  From  the  homesteads,  wann  and  low, 
By  the  brook  and  in  the  glen  !" 

"  We  will  rear  new  homes  under  trees  that  glow 
As  if  gems  were  the  fruitage  of  every  bough ; 
O'er  DOT  white  walls  we  will  train  the  vine, 
And  sit  in  its  shadow  at  day's  decline ; 
And  watch  our  herds,  as  they  range  at  will 
Through  the  green  savannas,  all  bright  and  still." 

"  But  woe  for  that  sweet  shade 
Of  the  flowering  orchard -trees. 

Where  first  our  children  play'd 
'Midst  the  birds  and  honey-bees  !** 

"  All,  all  our  own  shall  the  forests  be, 

As  to  the  bound  of  the  roebuck  free ! 

None  shall  say,  '  Hither,  no  further  pass!' 

We  will  track  each  step  through  the  wavy  grass; 

We  will  chase  the  elk  in  his  speed  and  might. 

And  bring  proud  spoils  to  the  hearth  at  night." 

"But,  oh!  the  gray  church-tower, 
And  the  sound  of  Sabbath-bell, 

And  the  shelter'd  garden-bower, — 
We  have  bid  them  all  farewell  1" 


•'  We  will  give  the  names  of  our  fearless  race 
To  each  bright  river  whose  course  we  trace; 
We  will  leave  our  memory  with  mounts  and  floods 
And  the  path  of  our  daring  in  boundless  woods  I 
And  our  works  unto  many  a  lake's  green  shore, 
Where  the  Indian's  graves  lay,  alone,  before." 

"  But  who  shall  teach  the  flowers, 
Which  our  children  loved,  to  dwell 

In  a  soil  that  is  not  ours? 
—Home,  home  and  friends,  farewell !" 


THE  INDIAN  WITH  HIS  DEAD  CHILD 


IN  the  silence  of  the  midnight 

I  journey  with  my  dead ; 
In  the  darkness  of  the  forest-boughs, 

A  lonely  path  I  tread. 

But  my  heart  is  high  and  fearless, 
As  by  mighty  wings  upborne ; 

The  mountain  eagle  hath  not  plumes 
So  strong  as  Love  and  Scorn. 

I  have  raised  thee  from  the  grave-sod 
By  the  white  man's  path  defiled ; 

On  to  th'  ancestral  wilderness, 
I  bear  thy  dust,  my  child ! 

I  have  ask'd  the  ancient  deserts 

To  give  my  dead  a  place, 
Where  the  stately  footsteps  of  the  free 

Alone  should  leave  a  trace. 

And  the  tossing  pines  made  answer — 
"Go,  bring  us  back  thine  own!" 

And  the  streams  from  all  the  hunters'  hilts, 
Rush'd  with  an  echoing  tone. 

Thou  shalt  rest  by  sounding  waters 

That  yet  untamed  may  roll ; 
The  voices  of  that  chain  less  host 

With  joy  shall  fill  thy  soul. 

In  the  silence  of  the  midnight 

I  journey  with  the  dead, 
Where  the  arrows  of  my  father's  bow 

Their  falcon  flight  have  sped. 

I  have  left  the  spoiler's  dwellings, 

For  evermore,  behind ; 
Unmingled  with  their  household  sounds, 

For  me  shall  sweep  the  wind. 

Alone,  amidst  their  hearth-fires, 

I  watch'd  my  child's  decay, 
Uncheer'd,  I  saw  the  spirit-light 

From  his  young  eyes  fade  away. 

When  his  head  sank  on  my  bosom, 
When  the  death-sleep  o'er  him  fell, 

Was  there  one  to  say,  "A  friend  is  near  7" 
There  was  none !— pale  race,  farewell  I 

To  the  forests,  to  the  cedars. 

To  the  warrior  and  his  bow, 
Back,  back !— I  bore  thee  laughing  thence 

I  hear  thee  slumbering  now  1 

I  bear  thee  unto  burial 
With  the  mighty  hunters  gone; 

I  shall  heat  thee  in  the  forest-breeze, 
Thou  wilt  speak  of  joy,  my  son  I 

In  the  silence  of  the  midnight 

I  journey  with  the  dead  ; 
But  my  heart  is  strong,  my  step  is  fleet, 

My  father's  path  I  tread. 


•An  Indian,  who  had  established  himself  in  a  township  of 
Maine,  feeling  indignantly  the  want  of  sympathy  evinced  toward* 
him  by  the  while  inhabitants,  particularly  on  the  death  f  his  onlj 
child,  gave  up  his  farm  soon  afterwards,  dug  up  the  -ody  of  h« 
child,  and  carried  it  with  him  two  hundred  miles  through  the 
s  to  join  the  Canadian  Indian*.  See  Tudar't  Lettat  on  (to 
cro  State*  of  Jnwrwa 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


185 


THE  KING  OF  ARRAGON'S  LAMENT 
FOR   HIS   BROTHER.* 


If  I  could  see  him,  it  i 


well  with  me? 

Cottridgt'l  H'alleruUin 


THERE  were  iights  and  sounds  of  revelling  in  the 

vanquish'd  city's  halls, 
As  by  night  the  feast  of  victory  was  held  within 

its  walls ; 
And  the  conquerors  fill'd  the  wine-cup  high,  after 

years  of  bright  blood  shed  ; 
But  their  Lord,  the  King  of  Arragon,  'midst  the 

triumph,  wail'd  the  dead. 

He  look'd  down  from  the  fortress  won,  on  the  ten ti 

and  towers  below, 
The  moon-lit  sea,  the  torch-lit  streets,  — and  a 

gloom  came  o'er  his  brow  : 
The  voice  of  thousands  floated  up,  with  the  horn 

and  cymbal's  tone  ; 
But  his  heart,  'midst  that  proud  music,  felt  more 

utterly  alone. 

And  he  cried,  "  Thou  art  mine,  fair  city!  thou  city 

of  the  sea  ! 
But,  oh !  what  portion  of  delight  is  mine  at  last 

in  thee  1 
— I  am  lonely  'midst  thy  palaces,  while  the  glad 

waves  past  them  roll, 
And  the  soft  breath  of  thine  orange-bowers  is 

mournful  to  my  soul. 

"  My  brother  1  oh  I  my  brother !  thou  art  gone, — 
the  true  and  brave. 

And  the  haughty  joy  of  victory  hath  died  upon  thy 
grave  ; 

There  are  many  round  my  throne  to  stand,  and  to 
march  where  I  lead  on  ; 

There  was  one  to  love  me  in  the  world, — my  bro- 
ther !  thou  art  gone  ! 

'  In  the  desert,  in  the  battle,  in  the  ocean-tempest's 

wrath, 
We  stood  together,  side  by  side ;  one  hope  was 

ours,— one  path; 
Thou  hast  wrapt  me  in  the  soldier's  cloak,  thou 

hast  fenced  me  with  thy  breast ; 
Thou  hast  watch'cl  beside  my  couch  of  pain— oh ' 

bravest  heart,  and  best' 

"  I  see  the  festive  lights  around ; — o'er  a  dull  sad 

world  they  shine ; 
1  hear  the  voice  of  victory— my  Pedro!  where  is 

t  In  tic  ? 
The  only  voice  in  whose  kind  tone  my  spirit  found 

reply ! — 
Oh  brother !   I  have  bought  too  dear  this  hollow 

pageantry ! 

"  I  have  hosts,  and  gallant  fleets,  to  spread  my 

glory  and  my  sway, 
And  chiefs   to  learl  them  fearlessly ; — my  friend 

hath  pass'd  away! 
For  the  kindly  look,  the  word  of  cheer,  my  heart 

may  thirst  in  vain, 
Ant  .he  face  that  was  as  light  to  mine— it  cannot 

come  again  ! 

•'  I  have  made  thy  blood,  thy  faithful  blood,  the 
offering  for  a  crown  ; 

With  love,  which  earth  bestows  not  twice,  I  have 
purchased  cold  renown ; 

How  often  will  my  weary  heart  'midst  the  sound* 
of  triumph  die. 

When  I  think  of  thee,  my  brother!  thou  flower  of 
chivalry ! 

"  I  am  lonely— I  am  lonely !  this  rest  is  even  a> 
death ! 

Let  me  hear  again  the  ringing  spears,  and  the  bat- 
tle-trumpet's breath ; 

•The  ijief  of  Ferdinand,  King  of  Arragon,  for  the  loss  of  hii 
brother,  Don  Pedro,  who  was  killed  during  the  siege  of  Naples  ii 
•ITectingly  described  by  the  historian,  Mariana.  It  is  also  the  sub- 
ject of  on*  at  the  old '.Spanish  ballads  in  Lockhart's  beautiful  col- 


Let  me  see  the  fiery  charger  foam,  and  the  royal 

banner  wave — 
But  where  art  thou,  my  brother?  where? — in  tny 

low  and  early  grave !" 

And  louder  swell'd  the  songs  of  joy  through  that 

victorious  night, 
AnC  faster  flow'd  the  red  wine  forth,  by  the  stars' 

•mil  torches'  light ; 
But  low  and  deep,  amidst  the  mirth,  was  hear/ 

the  conqueror's  moan — 
"  My  brother  !  oh  !  my  brother !  best  and  bravest 

thou  art  gone !" 


THE  RETURN. 


••HAST  thou  come  with  the  heart  of  thy  childhood 
back  ? 

The  free,  the  pure,  the  kind  ?" 
— So  murmur'd  the  trees  in  my  homeward  track, 

As  they  play'd  to  the  mountain-wind. 

"  Hath  thy  soul  been  true  to  its  early  love  ?" 

Whisper'd  my  native  streams; 
"Hath  the  spirit  nursed  amidst  hill  and  grove. 

Still  revered  its  first  high  dreams  ?" 

"  Hastfthou  borne  in  thy  bosom  the  holy  prayer 

Of  the  child  in  his  parent-hall'?" 
— Thus  breathed  a  voice  on  the  thrilling  air 

From  the  old  ancestral  walls. 

"  Hast  thou  kept  thy  faith  with  the  faithful  dead 

Whose  place  of  rest  is  nigh  ? 
With  the  father's  blessing  o'er  thee  shed, 

With  the  mother's  trusting  eye  ?" 

—Then  my  tears  gush'd  forth  in  sudden  rain, 

As  I  answer'd — "  O,  ye  shades  I 
I  bring  not  my  childhood's  heart  again 

To  the  freedom  of  your  glades. 

"  I  have  turn'd  from  my  first  pure  love  aside, 

O  bright  and  happy  streams  ! 
Light  after  light,  in  my  soul  have  died 

The  day-spring's  glorious  dreams. 

"And  the  holy  prayer  from  my  thoughts   hart 
pass'd — 

The  prayer  at  my  mother's  knee ; 
Darken'd  and  troubled  I  come  at  last, 

Home  of  my  boyish  glee  ! 

"  But  I  bear  from  my  chi.dhood  a  gift  of  tears 

To  soften  and  atone ; 
And  oh  !  ye  scenes  of  those  blessed  years, 

They  shall  make  me  again  your  own." 


THE  VAUDOIS'  WIFE.* 


Clasp  me  a  little  longer,  on  the  brink 
Of  fate  I  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress : 

And  when  this  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat,  oh !  think— 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excess — 
That  thou  to  me  hut  been  all  tenderness, 

And  friend,  to  more  than  human  friendship  just. 
Oh  1  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 

And  by  the  hopes  of  an  immortal  trust, 

God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs,  when  I  am  laid  in  durt. 

Gertrude  of  tfyommg 

Tfnr  voice  is  in  mine  ear,  beloved  I 

Tl.-'  'Tok  is  in  my  heart, 
Thy  bosom  is  my  resting-place, 

And  yet  I  must  depart. 
Earth  on  my  soul  is  strong— too  strong — 

Too  precious  is  its  chain, 
All  woven  of  thy  love,  dear  friend, 

Yet  vain — though  mighty — vain  ! 


*  The  wife  of  a  Vaudois  lead.-r,  in  one  of  the  attacks  made  on  th< 
Protestant  hamlets,  received  a  mortal  wound,  -ml  died  in  her  bu» 
band's  arms,  exhorting  him  to  courage  and  joduranct. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Th«"i  see'st  mine  eye  grow  dim,  beloved  i 

Thou  see'st  my  life-blood  flow. — 
Bow  to  the  chastcner  silently. 

And  calmly  let  me  go  ! 
A  little  while  between  our  heart' 

The  shaJowy  gulf  must  lie, 
Yet  have  we  for  their  communing 

Still,  still  Eternity' 

Alas!  thv  tsars  are  on  my  chei'k 

Mv  spirit  th,;y  detain  ; 
I  kno-v  that  from  thine  agony 

Is  wring  that  rmrni.ig  rain. 
Best,  kin.lest,  weep  not;— make  the  pang 

The  hitter  conflict,  loss — 
Oh!  sa:l  it  is,  and  yet  a  joy, 

To  feel  thy  love's  excess! 

But  calm  thra  !    Let  the  thought  of  death 

A  solemn  peace  restore  ! 
The  voice  that  must  be  silent  soon, 

Would  speak  to  thee  once  more. 
That  thou  may'st  bear  its  blessing  on 

Through  years  of  after  life — 
A  token  of  consoling  love, 

Even  from  this  hour  of  strife. 

I  bless  thee  for  the  noble  heart, 

The  tender,  and  the  true, 
Where  mine  hath  found  the  happiest  rest 

That  e'er  fond  woman's  knew; 
I  bless  thee,  faithful  friend  and  guide, 

For  my  own,  my  treasured  share, 
In  the  mournful  secrets  of  thy  soul, 

In  thy  sorrow,  in  thy  prayer. 

I  bless  thee  for  kind  looks  and  words 

Shower'd  on  my  path  like  dew, 
For  all  the  love  in  those  deep  eyes 

A  gladness  ever  new! 
For  the  voice  which  ne'er  to  mine  replied 

But  in  kindly  tones  of  cheer; 
For  every  spring  of  happiness 

My  soul  hath  tasted  here  I 

I  bless  thee  for  thu  last  rich  boon 

Won  from  affection  tried, 
The  right  to  gaze  on  death  with  thee, 

To  peri«h  by  thy  side  ! 
And  yet  more  for  the  glorious  hope 

Even  to  these  moments  given — 
Did  not  thy  spirit  ever  lift 

The  trust  of  mine  to  Heaven. 

Now  be  thou  strong  I  Oh !  knew  we  not 

Our  path  must  lead  to  this  ? 
A  shadow  and  a  trembling  still 

Were  mingled  with  our  b'iss! 
We  plighted  our  young  hearts  when  storm* 

Were  dark  upon  the  sky, 
In  full,  deep  knowledge  of  their  task 

To  suffer  and  to  die  ! 

Be  strong  I  I  leave  the  living  voice 
Of  this,  my  martyr'd  blood, 


A  token  on  the  air, 
To  rouse  the  valiant  from  repose, 
The  fainting  from  despair. 

Hear  it,  and  bear  thou  on,  my  love ! 

Ay,  joyously  endure ! 
Our  mountains  must  be  altars  yet, 

Inviolate  and  pure ; 
There  must  our  God  be  worshipped  still 

With  the  worship  of  the  free — 
Farewell  1  there's  but  one  pang  in  death. 

One  only,— leaving  tbee  I 


THE  GUERILLA  LEADER'S  VOW- 


Did  yon  say  all  ? 


All  my  pretty  one»  1 


Let  us  make  medicine  of  this  great  rev 
To  cure  this  deadly  grief ! 


MY  battle-vow  ! — no  minster  walls 

Gave  back  the  burning  word, 
Nor  cross  nnr  shrine  the  low  deep  tone 

Of  smother'u  vengeance  heard ; 
But  the  ashes  of  a  ruin'd  home 

ThrilPd,  as  it  sternly  rose, 
With  the  mingling  voice  of  blood  that  shook 

The  midnight's  dark  repose. 

I  breathed  it  not  o'er  kingly  tombs, 

But  where  my  children  lay, 
And  the  startlud  vulture,  at  my  step, 

Soar'd  from  their  precious  clay. 
I  stood  amidst  my  dead  alone — 

I  kiss'd  their  lips — I  pour'd, 
In  the  strong  silence  of  that  hour, 

My  spirit  on  my  sword. 

The  roof-tree  fall'n,  the  smouldering  floor, 

The  blacken'd  threshold-stone, 
The  bright  hair  torn,  and  soil'd  with  blood, 

Whose  fountain  was  my  own  ; 
These,  and  the  everlasting  hills, 

Bore  witness  that  wild  night; 
Before  them  rose  th'  avenger's  soul, 

In  crush'd  affection's  might. 

The  stars,  the  searching  stars  of  heaven. 

With  keen  looks  would  upbraid, 
If  from  my  heart  the  fiery  vow, 

Sear'd  on  it  then,  could  fade, 
'"hey  have  no  cause  ! — Go,  ask  the  streams 

That  by  iny  paths  have  swept, 
The  red  waves  that  unstain'd  were  born — 

How  hath  my  faith  been  kept  ? 

And  other  eyes  are  on  my  soul, 
That  never,  never  close, 

The  sad,  sweet  glances  of  the  lost—- 
They leave  me  no  repose. 

Haunting  my  night-watch  'midst  the  rocks. 
And  by  the  torrent's  foam, 

Through  the  dark-rolling  mists  they  shine, 
Full,  full  of  love  and  home  ! 

Alas!  the  mountain  eagle's  heart, 

When  wrong'd,  may  yet  find  rest ; 
Scorning  the  place  made  desolate, 

He  seeks  another  nest. 
But  I — your  soft  looks  wake  the  thirst 

That  wins  no  quenching  rain  ; 
Ye  drive  me  back,  my  beautiful ! 

To  the  stormy  fight  again  ! 


THEKLA  AT  HER  LOVER'S  GR\VE.» 


Thither  where  he  lies  buried  ! 
That  single  spot  is  the  whole  world  to  me. 

Ccieridgc't  fPaOenttnt. 

THT  votee  WM  ftl  My  soul !  it  call'd  me  on  ; 

O  my  kwt  friefld  I  thy  voiee  was  in  my  soul ! 
Prom  the  eoW  faded  World,  whence  thou  art  gone, 

To  hear  no  more  life's  troubled  billows  roll, 
I  come,  I  come  ! 

Now  speak  to  me  again  !  we  loved  so  well — 

We  loved !  oh!  still,  I  know  that  still  we  love! 
I  have  left  all  things  with  thy  dust  to  dwell, 
Through  these  dim  aisles  in  dreams  of  thte  tt 
rove  : 

This  is  my  home  ! 


•  See  Wallmstnn,  Act  6. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


185 


Speak  to  me  in  the  thrilling  minster's  gloom! 

Speak!  thnu  hast  died,  and  sent  me  no  farewell! 
1  will  not  shrink  ;— oh  .   eighty  is  the  tomb, 

But  one  thing  mightier,  which  it  cai.^ot  quell, 
This  woman's  he»r* 

This  lone,  full,  fragile  heart!— the  strong  alone 
In  love  and  grief— of  both  tin;  burning  shrine! 

Thou,  my  soul's  friend !  with  grief  hast  surely  do*., 
But  with  the  love  which  made  thy  spirit  mine. 
Say,  couldst  tliou  part  J 

hsar  tin;  rustling  banners  ;  and  I  hear 

T/;e   wind's  low  singing   through   <he    fretted 

.none ; 

I  hr>ar  not  the,e;  and  yet  I  feel  tliee  near — 
What  is  this  nound  that  keeps  tliee  from  thine 
own  ? 

Breathe  it  away  ! 

I  wait  thse— I  adjure  tliee!  hast  thou  known 
II. >w  I  have  loved  thee?  couldst  thou  dream  it 

all? 

Am  I  not  here,  with  night  and  death  alone. 
And  fearing  not?  and  hath  my  spirit's  call 
O'er  thine  no  sway  7 

Thou  canst  not  come!  or  thus  I  should  not  weep! 

Thy  love  is  deathless— but  no  longer  free! 
Soon  would  its  wing  triumphantly  o'ersweep 

The  viewless  barrier,  if  such  power  might  be, 
Boon,  soon,  and  fast! 

But  I  shall  come  to  thee !  our  souls'  deep  dreams, 
Our  young  affections,  have  not  gush'd  in  vain; 
Soon  in  one  tide  shall  blend  the  sever'd  streams. 
The  worn  heart  break  its  bonds — and  death  and 
pain 

Be  with  the  past ! 

THE  SISTERS  OF  SCIO 


Ai  are  our  hearts,  our  way  is  one, 
And  cannot  be  divided.    Strung  affection 
Contends  with  aii  thing!,  and  o'ercnmeth  all  thinfi. 
Will  I  not  live  with  thee  ?  will  1  not  cheer  thee? 
Wouldst  thou  be  lonely  then  i  wouldst  thou  be  ad? 

Joanna  Bfitttt. 

*•  SISTER,  sweet  Sister!  let  me  weep  awhile! 

Bear  with  me — give  the  sudden  passion  way  I 
Thoughts  of  our  own  lost  home,  our  sunny  isle, 

Come,  as  a  wind  that  o'er  a  reed  hath  sway  ; 
Till  my  heart  dies  with  yearnings  and  sick  fears; — 
Oh!  could  my  life  melt  from  me  in  these  tears  1 
"  Our  father's  voice,  our  mother's  gentle  eye, 

Our  brother's  bounding  step— where  are  they, 

where  ? 
Desolate,  desolate  our  chambers  lie! 

—  How  hast  thou  won  thy  spirit  from  despair? 
O'er  miwc  swift  shadows,  gusts  of  terror,  sweep; — 
I  sink  away— bear  with  me— let  me  weep!" 
"  Yes!  weep,  my  Sister!  weep,  till  from  thy  heart 

The  weight  flow  forth  in  tears;  yet  sink  thou 

not! 
I  bind  my  sorrow  to  a  lofty  part, 

For  thee,  my  gentle  one !  our  orphan  lot 
To  meet  in  quenchless  trust ;  my  soul  is  strong— 
Thou,  too,  wilt  rise  in  holy  might  ere  long. 

14  \  breath  of  our  frse  heavens  and  noble  sires, 

A  memory  of  our  old  victorious  dead, — 
These  mantle  me  with  power  t  and  though  their 
fires 

In  a  frail  censer  briefly  may  be  shed, 
Yet  shall  they  light  UP  onward,  side  by  side  ; — 
Have  the  wild  birds,  and  have  not  we,  a  guide  ? 
"  Cheer,  then,  beloved .  on  whose  meek  brow  is  set 

Our  mother's  image— in  whose  voice  a  tone, 
A  faint  sweet  sound  of  hers  is  lingering  yet, 

An  echo  of  our  childhood's  music  gone; — 
Cheer  thee !  thy  Sister's  heart  and  faith  are  high 
Our  path  is  one — with  thee  I  live  and  die!" 


BERNARDO  DEL  CARPIO. 


The  celebrated  Spanish  champion,  Bernardo  del  Car 
pio,  having  made  many  ineffectual  efforts  to  procure  tha 
release  of  his  lather,  the  Cuum  Suldana,  who  had  been 
imprisoned  l>y  Kin;;  Alfonso  of  Asturias,  almost  from  the 
tin'"  of  Bernardo's  birth,  at  last  took  up  arms  in  despair, 
i  in-  ««ar  which  he  maintained  proved  so  destructive,  that 
the  men  of  the  land  gathered  round  the  King,  and 
united  in  demanding  Saldnna's  liberty.  Alfonso,  accord- 
ingly, offered  Bernardo  immediate  possession  of  his 
father's  person,  in  exchange  fi>r  his  castle  of  Carpio. 
HiTirnil  >,  with  u:  hesitation,  gave  up  his  strong  hold, 
with  all  his  capiives;  and  being  assured  that  his  father 
was  then  on  his  way  from  prison,  rode  forth  with  the  King 
to  meet  him.  "And  when  lie  saw  his  lather  approach- 
ill!.',  lie  exclaimed,"  says  the  ancient  chronicle,  '"Oh, 
God  !  is  the  Count  of  Saldana  indeed  coming  ?'— '  Look 
where  he  is,'  replied  the  cruel  King,  'and  now  go  and 
greet  him  whom  you  have  BO  long  desired  to  see.'  " 
The  remainder  of  the  story  will  be  found  related  in  tha 
ballad.  The  chronicles  and  romances  leave  us  nearly 
in  the  dark  as  to  Bernardo's  history  aftp*  'his  event. 


THE  warrior  bow'd  his  crested  head,  and  tamed 

his  heart  of  fire, 
And  sued  the  haughty  king  to  free  his  long-impri- 

son'd  sire ; 
'I  bring  thee  here  my  fortress  keys,  I  bring  my 

captive  train, 
I  pledge  thee  faith,  my  liege,  my  lord  !— oh,  break 

my  father's  chain  !" 

"  Rise,  rise !  even  now  thy  father  comes,  a  ran- 

som'd  man  this  day  ; 
Mount  thy  good  horse,  and  thou  and  I  will  meet 

him  on  his  way." 
Then  lightly  rose  that  loyal  son,  and  bounded  on 

his  steed, 
And  urged,  as  if  with  lance  in  rest,  the  charger'! 

foamy  speed. 

And  lo!  from  far,  as  on  they  press'd,  there  came  a 

glittering  hand. 
With  one  that  'midst  them  stately  rode,  as  a  leader 

in  the  land; 
"  Now  haste,  Bernardo,  haste !  for  there,  in  very 

truth,  is  he, 
The  father  whom  thy  faithful  heart  hath  yearn'd 

so  long  to  see." 

His  dark  eye  flash'd,  his  proud  breast  heaved,  his 
cheek's  blood  came  and  went , 

He  reach'd  that  gray-hair'd  chieftain's  side,  and 
there,  dismounting,  bent ; 

A  lowly  knee  to  earth  he  bent,  his  father's  hand 
he  took,— 

What  was  there  in  its  touch  that  all  hia  fiery  spi- 
rit shook  ? 

That  hand  was  cold — a  frozen  thing — it  dropp'd 

from  his  like  lead, — 
He  look'd  up  to  the  face  above— the  face  was  of 

the  dead  I 
A  plume  waved  o'er  the  noble  brow— the  brow  was 

flx'd  and  white  ;— 
He  met  at  last  his  father's  eyes— but  in  them  was 

no  sight ' 

flp  from  the  ground  he  sprung,  and  gazed,  but  vt  IKJ 

could  paint  that  gaze? 
They  hush'd  their  very  hearts,  that  saw  I*  horror 

and  amaze ; 
They  might  have  chain'd  him,  as  before  that  stony 

form  he  stood, 
For  the  power  was  stricken  from  his  arm,  and 

from  his  lip  the  blood. 

"  Father !"  at  length  he  mtirmur'd  low— and  wept 

like  childhood  then,— 
Talk  not  of  grief  till  thou  hast  seen  the  tears  of 

warlike  men ! — 
He  thought  on  all  his  glorious  hopes,  and  all  his 

young  renown, — 
II"  flung  the  falchion  from  his  side,  and  in  the  dust 

eat*  down. 


186 


IIEMAXS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Then  covering  with  bis  steel-gloved  hands  hi§ 

darkly  mournful  brow, 
"  No  more,  there  is  no  more,"  he  said,  "  to  lift  the 

•sword  for  now. — 
My  king  is  false,  my  hope  betray  d,  my  Father— 

oh !  the  worth. 
The  glory,  and  the  loveliness,  are  pass'd  away 

from  earth ! 

'  I  thought  to  stand  where  banners  waved,  ray  sire 

beside  thee  yet, 
1  would  that  there  our  kindred  blood  on  Spain's 

free  soil  had  met, — 
Thou  wouldst  have  known  my  spirit  then,— for 

thee  my  fields  were  won, — 
And  thou  hast  perish'd  in  thy  chains,  as  though 

thou  hadst  no  son  !" 

Then,  starting  from  the  ground  once  more,  he 
seized  the  monarch's  rein, 

Amidst  the  pale  and  wilder'd  looks  of  all  the  cour- 
tier train ; 

And  with  a  fierce,  o'ermastf  ring  grasp,  the  rearing 
war-horse  led, 

A  nd  sternly  set  them  face  to  face,— the  king  before 
the  dead ! — 

1  Came  I  not  forth  upon  thy  pledge,  my  father's 
hand  to  kiss  7 — 

Be  still,  and  gaze  thou  on,  false  king  !  and  tell  me 
what  is  this ! 

The  voice,  the  glance,  the  heart  I  sought — give  an- 
swer, where  are  they  ?— 

If  thou  wouldst  clear  thy  perjured  soul,  send  life 
through  this  cold  clay ! 

"  Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light,— be  still !  keep 

down  thine  ire, — 
Bid  these  white  lips  a  blessing  speak— this  earth  is 

not  my  sire ! 
Give  me  back  him  for  whom  I  strove  foi  whom  my 

blood  was  shed,— 
Thou  canst  not— and  a  king? — His  dust  be  moan 

tains  on  thy  head  !" 

lie  loosed  the  steed ;  his  slack  hand  fell,— upon  the 
silent  face 

He  cast  one  long,  deep,  troubled  look,— then  turn'd 
from  that  sad  place : 

His  hope  was  crush'd,  his  after-fate  untold  in  mar- 
tial strain, — 

His  banner  led  the  spears  no  more  amidst  the  hilli 
of  Spain. 


THE  TOMB  OF  MADAME  LANGHANS.* 


To  a  mysteriously  consorted  pair 
This  place  ii  coniecrate ;  to  death  and  lif» 
And  to  the  best  affections  that  proceed 
From  this  conjunction. 

Wardnoortk. 


How  many  hopes  were  borne  upon  thy  bier, 
O  bride  of  stricken  love !  in  anguish  hither ' 
Like  flowers,  the  first  and  fairest  of  the  year 
Pluck'd  on  the  bosom  of  the  dead  to  wither ; 
Hopes,  from  their  source  all  holy,  though  of  earth, 
All  brightly  gathering  round  affection's  hearth. 

Of  mingled  prayer  they  told  ;  of  Sabbath  hours ; 
Of  morn's  farewell,  and  evening's  blessed  meeting ; 
Of  childhood's  voice,  amidst  the  household  bowers; 
And  bounding  step,  and  smile  of  joyous  greeting  ;— 
But  thou,  young  mother!  to  thy  gentle  heart 
Didst  take  thy  babe,  and  meekly  so  depart. 

How  many  hopes  have  sprung  in  radiance  hence ! 
Their  trace  yet  lights  the  dust  where  thou  art 

sleeping ! 

A  solemn  joy  comes  o'er  me,  and  a  sense 
Of  triumph,  blent  with  nature's  gush  of  weeping, 
As,  kindling  up  the  silent  stone,  I  see 
The  glorious  vision,  caught  by  faith,  of  thee. 

•At  Hindelbank,  near  Berne,  she  is  represented  as  bursting  from 
the  sepulchre,  with  her  infant  in  her  anna,  at  the  sound  of  the  last 
trumpet.  An  inscription  on  the  tomb  concludes  thus :—"  Her*  am  I, 
0  God !  with  the  child  whom  thou  hast  given  me." 


Slumberer !  love  calls  thee,  for  i  he  night  is  past ; 
Put  on  the  immortal  beauty  of  thy  waking ! 
Captive !  and  hear'st  thou  not  the  trumpet's  blast. 
The  long,  victorious  note,  thy  bondage  breaking? 
Thou  hear'st,  thou  answer's!,  "God  of  earth  and 

Heaven ! 
Here  am  1,  with  the  child  whom  thou  hast  given !" 


THE  EXILE'S  DIRGE, 


Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  Winter's  rages, 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  bast  doi.e, 
Home  art  gone,  and  ta'en  thy  v>  ages. 


I  attended  a  funeral  where  there  were  a  number  of  the 
German  settlers  present.  After  I  had  performed  such 
service  as  is  usual  on  similar  occasions,  a  most  vene- 
rable-looking old  man  came  forward,  and  asked  me  if  I 
were  willing  that  they  should  perform  some  of  their  pe- 
culiar rites.  He  opened  a  very  ancient  version  of  Lu- 
ther's Hymns,  and  they  all  began  to  sing,  in  German,  so 
loud  that  the  woods  echoed  the  strain.  There  was  some- 
thing affecting  in  the  singing  of  these  ancient  people, 
carrying  one  of  their  brethren  to  his  last  home,  and 
using  the  language  and  rites  which  they  had  brought 
with  them  over  the  sea  from  the  Va.tcrla.nd,  a  word 
which  often  occurred  in  this  hymn.  It  was  a  long,  slow 
and  mournful  air,  which  they  sung  as  they  bore  the 
body  along  ;  the  words  "  mein  Gott,"  "  mein  Bruder' 
and  "  Vaterland,"  died  away  in  distant  echoes  amongst 
the  woods.  I  shall  long  remember  that  funeral  hymn. — 
flint's  Recollections  of  the  Valley  of  the  Mississippi. 


THERE  went  a  dirge  through  the  forest's  gloom 
— An  exile  was  borne  to  a  lonely  tomb. 

"  Brother !"  (so  the  chant  was  sung 
In  the  slumberer's  native  tongue,) 
"  Friend  and  brother !  not  for  thee 
Shall  the  sound  of  weeping  be : — 
Long  the  Exile's  woe  hath  lain 
On  thy  life  a  withering  chain  ; 
Music  from  thine  own  blue  streams, 
Wander'd  through  thy  fever-dreams ; 
Voices  from  thy  country's  vines, 
Met  thee  'midst  the  alien  pines, 
And  thy  true  heart  died  away ; 
And  thy  spirit  would  not  stay." 

Bo  swell'd  the  chant ;  and  the  deep  wind's  moan 
Seem'd  through  the  cedars  to  murmur—"  Gone  r 

••  Brother !  by  the  rolling  Rhine, 
Stands  the  home  that  once  was  thine— 
Brother !  now  thy  dwelling  lies 
Where  the  Indian  arrow  flies ! 
He  that  blest  thine  infant  bead. 
Pills  a  distant  greensward  bed  ; 
She  that  heard  thy  lisping  prayer, 
Slumbers  low  beside  him  there ; 
They  that  earliest  with  thee  play'd, 
Rest  beneath  their  own  oak  shade. 
Far.  far  hence !— yet  sea  nor  shore 
Haply,  brother !  part  ye  more  ; 
God  hath  call'd  thee  to  that  band 
In  the  immortal  Fatherland  !" 

•  The  Fatherland  /"—with  that  sweet  word 
\  burst  of  tears  'midst  the  strain  was  heard. 

"  Brother !  were  we  there  with  thee 
Rich  would  many  a  meeting  be  ! 
Many  a  broken  garland  bound, 
Many  a  mourn'd  and  lost  one  found  I 
But  our  task  is  still  to  bear, 
Still  to  breathe  in  changeful  air; 
Loved  and  bright  things  to  resign, 
As  even  now  this  dust  of  thine ; 


HEMANS'  POETI3AL  WORKS. 


187 


Yet  to  hope  !— to  hope  in  Heaven, 
Though  flowers  fall,  and  ties  he  riven- 
Yet  to  pray !  and  wait  the  hand 
Beckoning  to  the  Fatherland  1" 

And  the  requiem  died  in  the  forest's  gloom  ;- 
They  had  reach'd  the  Exile's  lonely  tomb. 


THE  DREAMING  CHILD. 


Alas!  what  kind  of  grief  should  thy  yean  know  ? 
Thy  brow  and  cheek  are  smooth  as  waters  be 
When  no  breath  troubles  them. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


AND  is  there  sadness  in  thy  dreams,  my  boy  7 
What  should  the  cloud  be  made  of  ?—  blessed  child  1 
Th>  spirit,  borne  upon  a  breeze  of  joy, 
All  day  hath  ranged  through  sunshine,  clear,  yet 
mild: 

And  now  thou  tremblest  !—  wherefore  ?—  in  thy  soul 
There  lies  no  past,  no  future.—  Thou  hast  heard 
No  sound  of  presage  from  the  distance  roll, 
Thy  heart  bears  traces  of  no  arrowy  word. 

From  thee  no  love  hath  gone  ;  thy  mind's  young 

eye 

Hath  look'd  not  into  Death's,  and  thence  become 
A  questioner  of  mute  Eternity, 
A  weary  searcher  for  a  viewless  home  : 

Nor  hath  thy  sense  been  quicken'd  unto  pain, 
By  feverish  watching  for  some  step  beloved  ; 
Free  are  thy  thoughts,  an  ever-changeful  train, 
Glancing  like  dewdrops,  and  as  lightly  moved. 

Yet  now,  on  billows  of  strange  passion  toss'd, 
How  art  thou  wilder'd  in  the  cave  of  sleep  ! 
My  gentle  child  !  'midst  what  dim  phantoms  lost. 
Thus  in  mysterious  anguish  dost  tliou  weep? 

Awake  !  they  sadden  me  —  those  early  tears, 
First  gushings  of  the  strong  dark  river's  flow, 
That  must  o'ersweep  thy  soul  with  coming  years, 
Th'  unfathomable  flood  of  human  woe  ! 

Awful  to  watch,  ev'n  rolling  through  a  dream, 
Forcing  wild  spray-drops  but  from  childhood's  eyes  1 
Wake,  wake  !  as  yet  thy  life's  transparent  stream 
Should  wear  the  tinge  of  none  but  summer  skies. 

Come  from  the  shadow  of  those  realms  unknown, 
Where  now  thy  thoughts  dismay'd  and  darkling 

rove; 
Come  to  the  kindly  region  all  thine  own, 

home,  still  bright  for  thee  with  guardian  love 


Happy,  fair  child  !  that  yet  a  mother's  voice 
Can  win  thee  back  from  visionary  strife!— 
Oh  !  shall  my  soul,  thus  waken'd  to  rejoice, 
Start  from  the  dreamlike  wilderness  of  life? 


THE  CHARMED  PICTURE. 


Oh!  that  those  lips  had  language!— Life  hath  pajs'd 
With  me  but  roughly  since  1  saw  thee  last. 

Coitjftr. 

THINE  eyes  are  charm M— thine  earnest  eyes— 

Thou  image  of  the  dead  I 
A  spell  within  their  sweetness  lies, 

A  virtue  thence  is  shed. 

Oft  in  their  meek  blue  light  enshrined, 

A  blessing  seems  to  be, 
And  sometimes  there  my  wayward  mind 

A  still  reproach  can  see : 

And  sometimes  Pity — soft  and  deep. 

And  quivering  through  a  tear; 
Xlven  as  if  Love  in  Heaven  could  weep, 

For  Grief  left  drooping  here. 


And  oh !  my  spirit  needs  that  balm, 

Needs  it  'midst  fitful  mirth; 
And  in  the  night-hour's  haunted  calm, 

And  by  the  lonely  hearth. 

Look  on  me  thug,  when  hollow  pri  tie 

Hath  made  the  weary  pine 
For  one  true  tone  of  other  days, 

One  glance  of  love  like  thine  I 

Look  on  me  thus,  when  sudden  gleo 

Bears  my  quick  heart  along, 
On  wings  that  struggle  to  be  free, 

As  bursts  of  skylark  song. 

In  vain,  in  vain  ! — too  soon  are  felt 

The  wounds  they  cannot  flee  ; 
Better  in  childlike  tears  to  melt, 

Pouring  my  soul  on  thee  ! 

Sweet  face,  that  o'er  my  childhood  shone, 

Whence  is  thy  power  of  change, 
Thus  ever  shadowing  back  my  own. 

The  rapid  and  the  strange  ? 

Whence  are  they  charm'd— those  earnest  eyes  1 

—I  know  the  mystery  well ! 
In  mine  own  trembling  bosom  lies 

The  spirit  of  the  spell ! 

Of  Memory,  Conscience,  Love,  't  is  born— 

Oh !  change  no  longer,  thou  1 
For  ever  be  the  blessing  worn 

On  thy  pure  thoughtful  brow  I 


PARTING   WORDS 


On»  struggle  more,  and  I  am  free .Byron. 


LEAVE  me,  oh !  leave  me  !— unto  all  below 
Thy  presence  binds  me  with  too  deep  a  spell ; 
Thou  makest  those  mortal  regions,  whence  I  go, 
Too  mighty  in  their  loveliness— farewell, 

That  I  may  part  in  peace  I 

Leave  me  ! — thy  footstep,  with  its  lightest  sound, 
The  very  shadow  of  thy  waving  hair, 
Wakes  in  my  soul  a  feeling  too  profound, 
Too  strong  for  aught  that  loves  and  dies,  to  bear-. 
Oh  !  bid  the  conflict  cease  1 

I  hear  thy  whisper — and  the  warm  tears  gush 
Into  mine  eyes,  the  quick  pulse  thrills  my  heart ; 
Thou  bid'st  the  peace,  the  reverential  hush, 
The  still  submission,  from  my  thoughts  depart ; 
Dear  one  !  this  must  not  bg. 

The  past  looks  on  me  from  thy  mournful  eye, 
The  beauty  of  our  free  and  vernal  days  ; 
Our  communings  with  sea,  and  hill,  and  sky — 
Oh  !  take  that  bright  world  from  my  spirit's  gaze 
Thou  art  all  earth  to  me  I 

Shut  out  the  sunshine  from  my  dying  room, 
The  jasmine's  breath,  the  murmur  of  the  bee; 
Let  not  the  joy  of  bird-notes  pierce  the  gloom! 
They  speak  of  love,  of  summer,  and  of  thee, 

Too  much— and  death  is  here  I 

Doth  our  own  spring  make  happy  music  now. 
From  the  old  beech-roots  flashing  into  day  ? 
Are  the  pure  lilies  imazed  in  its  flow  ? 
Alas  1  vain  thoughts !  that  fondly  thus  can  stray 
From  the  dread  hour  so  nearl 

If  I  could  but  draw  courage  from  the  light 
Of  thy  clear  eye,  that  ever  shone  to  bless! 
—Not  now !  't  will  not  be  now  ! — my  aching  sight 
Drinks  from  that  fount  a  flood  of  tenderness, 
Bearing  all  strength  away  1 

Leave  me!— thou  eom'st  between  my  heart  and 

Heaven  I 

I  would  be  still,  in  voiceless  prayer  to  die  I 
— Why  must  our  souls  thus  love,  and  then  be  ri  vent 
—Return !  thy  parting  wakes  mine  agony  I 
— f  to,  yet  awhile  delay  1 


1S8 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  MESSAGE  TO  THE  DEAD.* 

THOD'RT  passing  hence,  my  brother  1 

Oh!  my  earliest  friend,  farewell  I 
Thou'rt  leaving  me,  without  thy  voice, 

In  a  lonely  home  to  dwell ; 
And  from  the  hills,  and  from  the  hearth, 

And  from  the  household-tree, 
With  thee  departs  the  lingering  mirth, 

The  brightness  goes  with  thee. 

But  thoii,  my  friend,  my  brother! 

Thou'rt  speeding  to  the  shore 
Where  the  dirge-like  tone  of  parting  word* 

Shall  smite  the  soul  no  more  ! 
And  thou  wilt  see  our  holy  dead, 

The  lost  on  earth  and  main  ; 
Into  the  sheaf  of  kindred  hearts, 

Thou  wilt  be  bound  again  ! 

Tell,  then,  our  friend  of  boyhood. 

That  yet  his  name  is  heard 
On  the  blue  mountains,  whence  his  youth 

Pass'd  like  a  swift  bright  bird. 
The  light  of  his  exulting  brow, 

The  vision  of  his  glee, 
Are  on  me  still— Oh !  still  I  trust 

That  smile  again  to  see. 

And  tell  our  fair  young  sister, 

The  rose  cut  down  in  spring, 
That  yet  my  gushing  soul  is  fill'd 

With  lays  she  loved  to  sing. 
Her  soft,  deep  eyes  look  through  my  dreams 

Tender  and  sadly  sweet  ;— 
Tell  her  my  heart  within  me  burns 

Once  more  that  gaze  to  meet  1 

And  tell  our  white-hair'd  father, 

That  in  the  paths  he  trode, 
The  child  he  loved,  the  last  on  earth. 

Yet  walks  and  worships  God. 
Say,  that  his  last  fond  blessing  yet 

Rests  on  my  soul  like  dew, 
And  by  its  hallowing  might  I  trust 

Once  more  bis  face  to  view. 

And  tell  our  gentle  mother. 

That  on  her  grave  I  pour 
The  sorrows  of  rny  spirit  forth, 

As  on  her  breast  of  yore. 
Happy  thou  art  that  soon,  how  soon, 

Our  good  and  bright  will  see ! — 
Oh!  brother,  brother!  may  I  dwell. 

Ere  long,  with  them  and  thee  1 


THE  TWO  HOMES. 


Uh  !  if  the  soul  immortal  be, 
Is  not  its  love  immortal  too  ? 


SEEST  thou  my  home  ? — 't  is  where  yon  woods  are 

waving, 

In  their  dark  richness,  to  the  summer  air; 
Where  yon  blue  stream,  a  thousand  flower-bank* 

laving. 
Leads  down  the  hills  a  vein  of  light, — *t  is  there  I 

'Midst  those  green  wilds  how  many  a  fount  lies 

gleaotiag. 

Fringed  with  the  violet,  colour'd  with  the  skies  ! 
My  boyhood's  haunt,  through  days  of  summer 

dreaming, 
Under  young  leaves  that  shook  with  melodies. 

My  home !  the  spirit  of  its  love  is  breathing 
(n  every  wind  that  plays  across  my  track  ; 

•  "  Menage*  from  the  living  to  the  dead  are  not  uneocumi  in 
,JM  Highland*,  The  Gael  have  such  a  ceaseless  con*eiouine*B  of 

tnmortalitjr.  that  their  departed  friends  are  considered  as  merely  ab- 
«ent  for  a  time,  and  permitted  to  relieve  the  hours  of  separation  b» 
occasional  intercourse  with  the  objects  of  their  earliot  affection*." 

—  See  the  Notw  to  Mrs.  Brunton'i  Works 


From  its  white  walls  the  very  tendrils  wreathing 
Seem  with  soft  links  to  draw  the  wanderer  back. 

There  am  I  loved— there  pray'd  for— there  my  mo- 
ther 

Sits  by  the  hearth  with  meekly  thoughtful  eye ; 
There  my  young  sisters  watch  to  greet  their  brother 
— Soon  their  glad  footsteps  down  the  path  will  fly. 

There,  in  sweet  strains  of  kindred  music  blending, 
All  the  home-voices  meet  at  day's  decline; 
One  are  those  tones,  as  from  one  heart  ascending, — 
There   laughs   my  home — sad  stranger !  where  il 
thine  1 

Ask'st  thou  of  mine? — In  solemn  peace  'tis  lying. 
Far  o'er  the  deserts  and  the  tombs  away ; 
'Tis  where  7,  too,  am  loved  with  love  undying, 
And  fond  hearts  wait  my  step — But  where  are 
they? 

Ask  where  the  earth's  departed  have  their  dwel 

ing; 

Ask  of  the  clouds,  the  stars,  the  trackless  air! 
I  know  it  not,  yet  trust  the  whisper,  telling 
My  lonely  heart,  that  love  unchanged  is  there. 

And  what  is  home,  and  where,  but  with  the  loving  J 
Happy  thou  art,  that  so  canst  gaze  on  thine ! 
My  spirit  feels  but,  in  its  weary  roving, 
That  with  the  dead,  where'er  they  he,  is  mine. 

Go  to  thy  home,  rejoicing  son  and  brother! 
Bear  in  fresh  gladness  to  the  household  scene! 
For  me,  too,  watch  the  sister  and  the  mother, 
I  well  believe — but  dark  seas  roll  between. 


THE 


DEATH  -BED 


Wie  herrlich  die  Sonne  dort  untergeht !  da  ich  noch  ein  Bute  wai 
—  war's  rnein  Lieblingsgedanke,  wie  sic  la  leben,  wie  sie  zu  sterben  I 
Die  Raubtr. 

Like  tkte  to  die,  thou  gun ! — My  boyhood's  dream 
Was  this:  and  now  tnv  spirit,  with  thv  beam. 
Ebbs  from  a  field  of  victory  !— yet  the  hour 
Bears  back  upon  me,  with  a  torrent's  power. 
Nature's  deep  longings:— Oh!  for  some  kind  eye. 
Wherein  to  meet  love's  fervent  farewell  gaze  ; 
Some  breast  to  pillow  life's  last  agony, 
Some  voice,  to  speak  of  hope  and  brighter  day?, 
Beyond  the  pass  of  shadows!— But  I  go, 
I,  that  have  been  so  loved,  go  hence  alone; 
And  ye,  now  gathering  round  my  own  hearth' 

glow. 

Sweet  friends  f  it  may  be  that  a  softer  tone, 
Even  in  this  moment,  with  your  laughing  glee, 
Mingles  its  cadence  while  you  speak  of  me: 
Of  me,  your  soldier,  'midst  the  mountains  lying, 
On  the  red  banner  of  his  battles  dying. 
Far,  far  away!— and  oh!  your  parting  prayer — 
Will  not  his  name  be  fondly  murmur'd  there? 
It  will ! — A  blessing  on  that  holy  hearth  ! 
Though  clouds  are  darkening  to  o'ercast  its  mirth 
Mother!  I  may  not  hear  thy  voice  again  ; 
Sisters !  ye  watch  to  greet  my  step  in  vain  ; 
Voung  brother,  fare  thee  well ! — on  each  dear  bead 
Blessing  and  love  a  thousandfold  be  shed, 
My  soul's  last  earthly  breathings!— May  your  home 
Smile  for  you  ever  !— May  no  winter  come, 
No  world,  between  your  hearts  ! — May  even  your 

tears, 

For  my  sake,  full  of  long-remember'd  years, 
Quicken  the  true  affections  that  entwine 
Your  lives  in  one  bright  bond  !— I  may  not  sleep 
Amidst  our  fathers,  where  those  tears'  might  shin* 
Over  my  slumbers :  yet  your  love  will  keep 
My  memory  living  in  the  ancestral  halls, 
Where  shame  hath  never  foil:— the  dark  nigbl 

falls, 

And  I  depart. — The  brave  are  gone  to  rest. 
The  brotHers  of  my  combats,  on  the  breast 
Of  the  red  field  they  reap'd  : — their  work  is  done — 
Thou,  too,  art  set ! — farewell,  farewell,  thou  sun  ! 
The  last  lone  watcher  of  the  bloody  sod, 
Offers  a  trusting  spirit  up  to  God. 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WOKKS. 


189 


THE  IMAGE  IN  THE  HEART. 

T0*     *     * 


True,  indeed,  it  is, 

That  they  whom  death  has  hidden  from  our  light, 
Are  worthiest  of  the  mind's  regard  ;  with  them 
The  future  cannot  contradict  the  past- 
Mortality's  lait  exercise  and  proof 
It  undergone.  Wordsworth. 


The  love  where  death  has  §et  his  teal, 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 
Nor  falsehood  disa 


Huron. 


I  CALL  thee  blest . — though  now  the  voice  be  fled, 
Which,  to  thy  soul,  brought  day-spring  with  its 

tone, 

And  o'er  the  gentle  eyes  though  dust  be  spread, 
,  Eyes  that  ne'er  look'd  01.  thine  but  light  was 
f  thrown 

Far  through  thy  breast : 

,   And  though  the  music  of  thy  life  be  broken, 
Or  changed  in  every  chord,  since  he  is  gone, 
Feeling  all  this,  even  yet,  by  many  a  token, 
O  thou,  the  deeply,  but  the  brightly  lone ! 
I  call  thee  blest  I 

For  in  thy  heart  there  is  a  holy  spot, 
As  'mid  the  waste  an  Isle  of  fount  and  palm, 
For  ever  green  ! — the  world's  breath  enters  not, 
The  passion-tempests  may  not  break  its  calm; 
"J'is  thine,  all  thine  1 

Thither,  in  trust  unbaffled,  may'st  thou  turn, 
From  bitter  words,  cold  greetings,  heartless  eyes 
Quenching  thy  soul's  thirst  at  the  hidden  urn. 
That,  fill'd  with  waters  of  sweet  memory,  lies 
In  its  own  shrine. 

Thou  hast  thy  home  /—there  is  no  power  in  change 
To  reach  that  temple  of  the  past ; — no  sway. 
In  all  time  brings  of  sudden,  dark,  or  strange, 
To  sweep  the  still  transparent  peace  away 
From  its  hush'd  air! 

And  oh  .  that  glorious  image  of  the  dead ! 
Sole  thing  whereon  a  deathless  love  may  rest, 
And  in  deep  faith  and  dreamy  worship  shed 
Its  high  gifts  fearlessly !—  I  call  thee  blest, 
If  only  there  I 

Blest,  for  the  beautiful  within  me  dwelling, 
Never  to  fade ! — a  refuge  from  distrust, 
A  spring  of  purer  life,  still  freshly  welling, 
To  clothe  the  barrenness  of  earthly  dust 
With  flowers  divine. 

And  thou  hast  been  beloved ! — it  is  no  dream, 
No  false  mirage  for  thee,  the  fervent  love, 
The  rainbow  still  unreach'd,  the  ideal  gleam, 
That  ever  seems  before,  beyond,  above, 
Far  off  to  shine. 

But  thou,  from  all  the  daughters  of  the  earth 
Singled  and  mark'd,  hast  known  its  home  and  place  ; 
And  the  high  memory  of  its  holy  worth, 
To  this  our  life  a  glory  and  a  grace 
For  thee  hath  given. 

And  art  thou  not  still  fondly,  truly  loved  7 
Thou  art !— the  love  his  spirit  bore  away, 
Was  not  for  death  !— a  treasure  but  removed, 
A  bright  bird  parted  for  a  clearer  day,— 
Thine  still  in  Heaven  I 


WOMAN  ON  THE  FIELD  OF  B>TLE. 


Where  hath  not  woman  stood, 
Strong  in  affection'.*  might  ?  a  rred  upborn 
By  an  o'ennastering  current  1 

GEWTLE  and  lovely  form, 

What  didst  thou  here. 
When  the  fierce  battle-storm 

Bore  down  the  spear  1 

Banner  and  shiver'd  crest, 

Beside  thee  strown, 
Tell,  that  amidst  the  best, 

Thy  work  was  donel 

Yet  strangely,  sadly  fair, 

O'er  the  wild  scene, 
Gleams,  through  its  golden  hair 

That  brow  serene. 

Low  lies  the  stately  head,— 
Earth-bound  the  free; 

How  gave  those  haughty  dead 
A  place  to  thee? 

Slumberer !  thine  early  bier 
Friends  should  have  crown'd 

Many  a  flower  and  tear 
Shedding  around. 

Soft  voices,  clear  and  young. 

Mingling  their  swell, 
Should  o'er  thy  dust  have  sung 

Earth's  last  farewell. 

Sisters,  above  the  grave 

Of  thy  repose, 
Should  have  bid  violets  wave 

With  the  white  rose. 

Now  must  the  trumpet's  note 

Savage  arid  shrill, 
For  requiem  o'er  thee  float, 

Thou  fair  and  still) 

And  the  swift  charger  sweep 

In  full  career, 
Trampling  thy  place  of  sloop,- 

Why  earnest  thou  here? 

Why?— ask  the  true  heart  why 

Woman  hath  been 
Ever,  where  brave  men  die, 

Unshrinking  seen  ? 

Unto  this  harvest  ground 
Proud  reapers  came,— 

Some,  for  that  stirring  sound, 
A  warrior's  name; 

Some,  for  the  stormy  play 

And  joy  of  strife; 
And  some,  to  fling  away 

A  weary  life;— 

But  thou,  pale  sleeper,  thou, 
With  the  slight  frame, 

And  the  rich  locks,  whose  glow 
Death  cannot  tame; 

Only  one  thought,  one  power, 

Thee  could  have  led, 
So,  through  the  tempest's  hour. 

To  liA  thy  head  I 

Only  the  true,  the  strong, 

The  love,  whose  trust 
Woman's  deep  soul  too  long 

Pours  on  the  dust  I 


.90 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  LAND  OF  DREAMS. 


And  dreams,  in  their  development,  have  breath, 
And  tears,  and  torture*,  and  the  touch  of  joy  ; 
They  leave  a  weight  upon  our  waking  thought!, 
They  make  us  what  we  were  not—  what  they  will, 
And  shake  us  with  the  vision  that  's  gone  by. 


0  SPIRIT-LAUD  1  thou  land  of  dreams  ! 
A  world  thou  art  of  mysterious  gleams, 
Of  startling  voices,  and  sounds  at  strife,— 
A  world  of  the  dead  in  the  hues  of  life. 

Like  a  wizard's  magic  glass  thou  art, 
When  the  wavy  shadows  float  by,  and  part  : 
Visions  of  aspects,  now  loved,  now  strange, 
Glimmering  and  mingling  in  ceaseless  change. 

Thou  art  like  a  city  of  the  past, 
With  its  gorgeous  halls  into  fragments  cast, 
Amidst  whose  ruins  there  glide  and  play 
Familiar  forms  of  the  world's  to-day. 

Thou  art  like  the  depths  where  the  seas  have  birth, 
Rich  with  the  Wealth  that  is  lost  from  earth,  — 
All  the  sere  flowers  of  our  days  gone  by, 
And  the  buried  gems  in  thy  bosom  lie. 

Yes  I  thou  art  like  those  dim  sea-caves, 

A  realm  of  treasures,  a  realm  of  graves  ! 

And  the  shapes  through  thy  mysteries  that  come 

and  go, 
Are  of  beauty  and  terror,  of  power  and  woe. 

But  for  me,  O  thou  picture-land  of  sleep  I 
Thou  art  all  one  world  of  affections  deep,  — 
And  wrung  from  my  heart  is  each  flushing  dye, 
That  sweeps  o'er  thy  chambers  of  imagery. 

And  thy  bowers  are  fair  —  even  as  Eden  fair  ; 
All  the  beloved  <if  my  soul  are  there  ! 
The  forms  my  spirit  most  pines  to  see, 
The  eyes,  whose  love  hath  been  life  te  me  : 

They  are  there,—  and  each  blessed  voice  I  hear, 
Kindly,  and  joyoas,  and  silvery  clear  ; 
But  under-tonei  are  in  each,  that  say,  — 
"  It  is  but  a  dream  ;  it  will  melt  away  1" 

1  walk  with  sweet  friends  in  the  sunset's  glow  ; 
I  listen  to  music  of  long  ago  ; 

But  one  thought,  like  an   omen,  breathes  faint 

through  the  lay,  — 
"  It  is  but  a  dream  ;  it  will  melt  away!" 

I  sit  by  the  hearth  of  my  early  days  ; 
All  the  home-faces  are  met  by  the  blaze,  — 
And  the  eyes  of  the  mother  shine  soft,  yet  say, 
"  It  is  but  a  dream;  it  will  tnelt  away  1" 

And  away,  like  a  flower's  passing  breath,  't  is  gone, 
And  I  wake  more  sadly,  more  deeply  lone  ! 
Oh  !  a  haunted  heart  is  a  weight  to  bear,  — 
Bright  faces,  kind  voices!  where  are  ye,  where* 

Shadow  not  forth,  O  thou  land  of  dreams, 
The  past,  as  it  fled  by  my  own  blue  streams  ! 
Make  not  my  spirit  within  me  burn 
For  the  scenes  and  the  hours  that  may  ne'er  return  1 

Call  out  from  the  future  thy  visions  bright, 
From  the  world  o'er  the  grave,  take  thv  solemn 

light, 

And  oh  !  with  the  loved,  whom  no  more  I  see, 
Show  me  my  home,  as  it  yet  may  be  I 

As  it  yet  may  be  in  some  purer  sphere, 

No  cloud,  no  parting,  no  sleepless  fear; 

Bo  my  soul  may  bear  on  through  the  long,  long  day, 

fill  1  go  where  the  beautiful  melts  not  away  I 


THE  DESERTED  HOUSE. 

GLOOM  is  upon  thy  silent  hearth, 

0  silent  house  !  once  flll'd  with  mirth  ; 
Sorrow  is  in  the  breezy  sound 

Of  thy  tall  poplars  whispering  round. 

The  shadow  of  departed  hours 
Hangs  dim  upon  thy  early  flowers 
Even  in  thy  sunshine  seems  to  brood 
Something  more  deep  than  solitude. 

Fair  art  thou,  fair  to  a  stranger's  gaze, 
Mine  own  sweet  home  of  other  days . 
My  children's  birth-place  !  yet  for  me, 
It  is  too  much  to  look  on  thee. 

Too  much  !  for  all  about  thee  spread, 

1  feel  the  memory  of  the  dead, 
And  almost  linger  for  the  feet 
That  never  more  my  step  shall  meet. 

The  looks,  the  smiles,  all  vanish'd  now, 
Follow  me  where  thy  roses  blow  ; 
The  echoes  of  kind  household-words 
Are  with  me  'midst  thy  singing  birds. 

Till  my  heart  dies,  it  dies  away 
In  yearnings  for  what  might  not  stay; 
For  love  which  ne'er  deceived  my  trus», 
For  all  which  went  with  "dust  to  dust" 

What  now  is  left  me,  but  to  raise 
From  thee,  lorn  spot !  my  spirit's  jraw, 
To  lift  through  tears,  my  straining  eye 
Up  to  my  Father's  house  on  high  1 

Oh!  many  are  the  mansions  there,* 
But  not  in  one  hath  grief  a  share ! 
No  haunting  shade  from  things  gone  by. 
May  there  o'ersweep  the  unchanging  sky 

And  they  are  there,  whose  long-loved  mien 
In  earthly  home  no  more  is  seen  ; 
Whose  places,  where  they  smiling  sate, 
Are  left  unto  us  desolate. 

We  miss  them  when  the  board  is  spread ; 
We  miss  them  when  the  prayer  is  said  ; 
Upon  our  dreams  their  dying  eyes 
In  still  and  mournful  fondness  rise. 

But  they  are  where  these  longings  vain 
Trouble  no  more  the  heart  and  brain  ; 
The  sadness  of  this  aching  love 
Dims  not  our  Father's  house  above. 

Ye  are  at  rest,  and  I  in  tears.f 
Ye  dwellers  of  immortal  spheres  I 
Under  the  poplar  boughs  I  stand, 
And  mourn  the  broken  household  band 

But  by  your  life  of  lowly  faith, 
And  by  your  joyful  hope  in  death. 
Guide  me,  till  on  some  brighter  shore, 
The  seve-'J  wroath  is  bound  once  morel 

Holy  ye  were,  and  good,  and  true ! 
No  change  can  cloud  my  thoughts  of  you  i 
Guide  me  like  you  to  live  and  die, 
And  reach  my  Father's  house  on  bight 


THE  STRANGER'S  HEART. 

THE  stranger's  heart !  phi  wound  it  not! 
A  yearning  anguish  is  its  lot ; 
In  the  green  shadow  of  thy  tree, 
The  stranger  finds  no  rest  with  thee. 


•In my  Tathrr's  tvw  '"••'-  '"•  •  •'" 

f  From  u  indent  Hebrew  dirge 

**  Mourn  for  the  mourner, 

For  he  a  at  rut.  and  we 


•  mansions. — /o/m,  chip,  itf 
ind  not  for  the  dead 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


191 


Thou  think'st  the  vine's  low  rustling  leavet 
Glad  music  round  thy  household  eaves ; 
To  him  that  sound  hath  sorrow's  tone— 
The  stranger's  heart  is  with  his  own. 

Thou  think'st  thy  children's  laughing  play 
A  lovely  sight  at  fall  of  day  ;— 
Then  are  the  stranger's  thoughts  oppress'd— 
His  mother's  voice  comes  o'er  his  breast. 

Thou  think'st  it  sweet  when  friend  with  friend 
Beneath  one  roof  in  prayer  may  blend; 
Then  doth  the  stranger's  eye  grow  dim — 
Far  far  are  those  who  pray'd  with  him. 

Thy  hearth,  thy  home,  thy  vintage  land— 
The  voices  of  thy  kindred  band — 
Oh!  'midst  them  all  when  blest  thou  art, 
Deal  gently  with  the  stranger's  heart  1 


COME  HOME! 


COMB  home  !— there  is  a  sorrowing  breath 

In  music  since  ye  went, 
And  the  early  flower-scents  wander  by, 

With  mournful  memories  blent. 
The  tones  in  every  household  voice 

Are  grown  more  sad  and  deep. 
And  the  sweet  word— brother— wakes  a  wish 

To  turn  aside  and  weep. 

O  ye  Beloved !  come  home  ; — the  hour 

Of  many  a  greeting  tone, 
The  time  of  hearth-light  and  of  song, 

Returns— and  ye  are  gone! 
And  darkly,  heavily  it  falls 

On  the  forsaken  room, 
Burden  in  2  the  heart  with  tenderness, 

That  deepens  'midst  the  gloom. 

Where  finds  it  you,  ye  wandering  ones? 
With  all  your  boyhood's  glee 

Untamed,  beneath  the  desert's  palm, 
Or  on  the  lone  mid-sea  ? 

By  stormy  hills  of  battles  old  ? 
Or  where  dark  rivers  foam? 

—Oh!  life  is  dim  where  ye  are  not- 
Back,  ye  beloved,  come  home ! 

Come  with  the  leaves  and  winds  of  spring, 

And  swift  birds,  o'er  the  main! 
Our  love  is  grown  too  sorrowful — 

Bring  us  its  youth  again  ! 
Bring  the  glad  tones  to  music  back ! 

Still,  still  your  home  is  fair, 
The  spirit  of  your  sunny  life 

Alone  is  wanting  there ! 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  OBLIVION. 


*  /mjitoro  pace  1"* 


ONE  draught,  kind  Fairy  !  from  that  fountain  deep, 
To  lay  the  phantoms  of  a  haunted  breast, 
And  lone  affections,  which  are  griefs,  to  steep 
In  the  cool  honey-dews  of  dreamless  rest; 
And  from  the  soul  the  lightning-marks  to  lave — 
One  draught  of  that  sweet  wave  ! 

Yet,  mortal,  pause! — within  thy  mind  is  laid 
Wealth,  gnthor'd  long  and  slowly  ;  thoughts  divine 
Heap  that  full  treasure-house ;  and  thou  hast  made 
The  gems  of  many  a  spirit's  ocean  thine ; 


•  Quoted  from  a  letter  of  Lord  Byron's.  He  describes  the  im- 
preasion  nmrlured  upon  him  by  some  tombs  at  Bologna,  bearinf 
Ibis  simple  inscription  and  adds,  "When  I  die,  I  could  wish  thai 
some  friend  vroQld  see  these  words,  and  DO  other,  plated  above  my 
Crare.— "hnplora  put." 


— Shall  the  dark  waters  to  oblivion  bear 
A  pyramid  so  fair  ? 

Pour  from  the  fount!  and  let  the  draught  efface 
All  the  vain  lore  by  memory's  pride  amass'd. 
So  it  but  sweep  along  the  torrent's  trace, 
And  fill  the  hollow  channels  of  the  past ; 
And  from  tne  bosom's  inmost  folded  leaf. 
Rase  the  one  master-grief! 

Yet  pause  once   more !— all,  all  thy   soul    hath 

known, 

Loved,  felt,  rejoiced  in,  from  its  grasp  must  fade  I 
Is  there  no  voice  whose  kind  awakening  tone 
A  sense  of  spring-time  in  thy  heart  hath  made? 
No  eye  whose  glance  thy  day-dreams  would  recall  ? 
—Think— wouldst  thou  part  with  all  i 

Fill  with  forgetfulness !— there  are,  there  are 
Voices  whose  music  I  have  loved  too  well ; 
Eyes  of  deep  gentleness — but  they  are  far — 
Never  !  oh — never,  in  my  home  to  dwell ! 
Take  their  soft  looks  from  off  my  yearning  sou'— 
Fill  high  th'  oblivious  bowl  i 

Yet  pause  again  ! — with  memory  wilt  thou  cast 
The  undying  hope  away,  of  memory  born? 
Hope  of  reunion,  heart  to  heart  at  last, 
No  restless  doubt  between,  no  rankling  thorn  ? 
Wouldst  thou  erase  all  records  of  delight 

That  make  such  visions  bright  ? 

Fill  with  forgetfulness,  fill  high!— yet  stay— 
— 'Tis  from  the  past  we  shadow  forth  the  land 
Where  smiles,  long  lost,  again  shall  light  our  way, 
And  the  soul's  friends  be  wreath'd  in  one  bright 

band: 

—Pour  the  sweet  w  aters  back  on  their  own  rill, 
I  must  remember  still. 

For  their  sake,  for  the  dead— whose  image  naugh. 
May  dim  within  the  temple  of  mv  breast— 
For  their  love's  sake,  which  now  no  earthly  thought 
May  shake  or  trouble  with  its  own  unrest, 
Though  the  past  haunt  me  as  a  spirit, — yet 
I  ask  not  to  forget. 


THE  THEMES  OF  SONG. 


Of  truth,  of  grandeur,  beauty,  love,  and  hope, 
And  melancholy  fear  subdued  by  faith. 


WHERE  shall  the  minstrel  rind  a  theme? 

— Where'er,  for  freedom  shed, 
Brave  blood  hath  dyed  some  ancient  stream, 

Amidst  the  mountains,  red. 

Where'er  a  rock,  a  fount,  a  grove, 

Bears  record  to  the  faith 
Of  love,  deep,  holy,  fervent  love, 

Victor  o'er  fear  and  death. 

Where'er  a  chieftain's  crested  brow 
Too  soon  hath  been  struck  down, 

Or  a  bright  virgin  head  laid  low, 
Wearing  its  youth's  first  crown. 

Where'er  a  spire  points  up  to  heaven, 
Through  storm  and  summer  air, 

Telling,  that  all  around  have  strivea 
Man's  heart,  and  hope,  and  praytr. 

Where'er  a  blessed  Home  hath  been 

That  now  is  Home  no  more  : 
A  place  of  ivy,  darkly  green, 

Where  laughter's  light  is  o'er. 

Where'er,  by  some  forsaken  grave, 
Some  nameless  greensward  heap, 

A  bird  may  sine,  a  wild-flower  wara, 
A  star  its  vigil  keep. 


192 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Or  where  a  yearning  heart  of  old, 

A  dream  of  shepherd  men, 
With  forma  of  more  than  earthly  mould 

Hath  peopled  grot  or  glen. 

There  may  the  bard's  high  themes  be  found— 

— We  die,  we  pass  away  : 
But  faith,  love,  pity — these  are  bound 

To  earth  without  decay. 

The  heart  that  burns,  the  cheek  that  glows, 

The  tear  from  hidden  springs. 
The  thorn  and  glory  of  the  rose— 

These  are  undying  things. 

Wave  after  wave  of  mighty  stream 

To  the  deep  sea  hath  gone : 
Yet  not  the  less,  like  youth's  bright  dream, 

The  exhiustless  flood  rolls  on. 


RHINE  SONG 

Or  THE  GERMAN   SOLDIERS  AFTER  VICTORY. 


"  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  Sir  Walter  Scott  de- 
scribe a  glorious  sight,  which  had  been  witnessed  by  a 
friend  of  his ! — the  crossing  of  the  Rhine,  at  Ehrenbreit- 
•tein,  by  the  German  army  of  Liberators  on  their  victo- 
rious return  from  France.  '  At  the  first  gleam  of  the 
river,'  he  said,  'they  all  burst  forth  into  the  national 
chaunt,  '  Am  Rlioin  !  Am  Rhein !'  They  were  two  days 
passing  over ;  and  the  rocks  and  the  castle  were  ringing 
to  the  song  the  whole  time ;— for  each  band  renewed  it 
while  crossing ;  and  even  the  Cossacks,  with  the  clash 
and  the  clang,  and  the  roll  of  their  stormy  war-music, 
catching  the  enthusiasm  of  the  scene,  swelled  forth  the 
chorus,  'JlmRhein!  Am  ftAeinT"— Manuscript  Letter. 


TO   TBE   AIR   OF— "AM   RHEIN,   AH   RHEIN." 


SINGLE  VOICE. 

IT  is  the  Rhine  1  our  mountain  vineyards  laving, 
I  see  the  bright  flood  shine,  I  see  the  bright  flood 

shine  1 

Sing  on  the  march,  with  every  banner  waving — 
Sing,  brothers,  'tis  the  Rhine!   Sing,  brothers, 
'tis  the  Rhine  1 

CHORUS. 

rhe  Rhine!  the  Rhine  our  own  imperial  River  1 
Be  glory  on  thy  track,  be  glory  on  thy  track  1 

We  left  thy  shores,  to  die  or  to  deliver  ;— 
We  bear  thee  Freedom  back,  we  bear  thee  Free- 
dom back ! 

SINGLE  VOICE. 

Hail .  Hail !  my  childhood  knew  thy  rush  of  water, 
Ev'n  as  my  mother's  song ;  ev'n  as  my  mother's 

song; 

That  Bound  went  past  me  on  the  field  of  slaughter, 
And  heart  and  arm  grew  strong)    And  heart 
and  arm  grew  strong  1 

CHORUS. 

Roll  proudly  on  I — brave  blood  is  with  thee  sweep- 
ing, 
Four'd  out  by  sons  of  thine,  pour'd  out  by  sons 

of  thine, 

Where  sword  and  spirit  forth  in  joy  were  leaping, 
Like  thee,  victorious  Rhine  1    Like  thee,  victo- 
rious Rhine  1 


SINGLE  VOICE. 

Home  ! — Home ! — thy  glad  wave  hath  a  tone  of 

greeting. 

Thy  path  is  by  my  home,  thy  path  is  by  my  home  •. 
Even  now  my  children  count  the  hours  till  meeting, 
O  ransom'd  ones,  I  come!    O  ransom'd  ones,  I 
come  I 


Go,  tell  the  seas,  that  chain  shall  bind  thee  never. 
Sound  on  by  hearth  and  shrine,  sound  on   by 

hearth  and  shrine! 

Sing  through  the  hills,  that  thou  art  free  for  ever— 
Lift  up  thy  voice,  O  Rhine  1    Lift  up  thy  voice, 
O  Rhine  1 


A  SONG  OF  DELOS. 


The  Island  of  Delos  was  considered  of  such  peculiai 
sanctity  by  the  ancients,  that  they  did  not  allow  it  to  be 
desecrated  by  the  events  of  birth  or  death.  In  the  fol- 
lowing poem,  a  young  priestess  of  Apollo  is  supposed 
to  be  conveyed  from  its  shores  during  the  last  hours  of  a 
mortal  sickness,  and  to  bid  the  scenes  of  her  youth  fare- 
well in  a  sudden  flow  of  unpremeditated  song. 


Terra,  «oleil,  rations,  belle  et  donee  Nature, 

L'air  eat  li  parfume !  la  lumiere  wt  si  pure  ! 
Aux regards d' on  Mourant  leaoliel  eat  li  bean! 

Lamortm*. 


A  SONO  was  heard  of  old— a  low,  sweet  song. 
On  the  blue  sens  by  Delos  :  from  that  isle, 
The  Sun-God's  own  domain,  a  gentle  girl 
Gentle — yet  all  inspired  of  soul,  of  mien. 
Lit  with  a  life  too  perilously  bright 
Was  borne  away  to  die.    How  beautiful 
Seems  this  world  to  the  dying!— but  for  her, 
The  child  of  beauty  and  of  poesy, 
And  of  soft  Grecian  skies — oh  !  who  may  dream 
Of  all  that  from  her  changeful  eye  flash'd  forth. 
Or  glanced  more  quiveringly  through  starry  tears. 
As  on  her  land's  rich  vision,  fane  o'er  fane 
Colour'd  with  loving  light— she  gazed  her  last. 
Her  young  life's  last,  that  hour  I    From  her  pale 

brow 

And  burning  cheek  she  threw  the  ringlets  back. 
And  bending  forward— as  the  spirit  sway'd 
The  reed-like  form  still  to  the  shore  beloved, 
Breathed  the  swan-music  of  her  wild  farewell 
O'er  dancing  waves :— "  Oh !  linger  yet,"  she  cried 

"  Oh  !  linger,  linger  on  the  oar, 
Oh!  pause  upon  the  deep! 

That  I  may  gaze  yet  once,  once  more, 
Where  floats  the  golden  day  o'er  fane  and  steep, 
Never  so  brightly  smiled  mine  own  sweet  shore 
— Oh!  linger,  linger  on  the  parting  oar  1 

"  I  see  the  laurels  fling  back  showers 
Of  soft  light  still  on  many  a  shrine ; 

I  see  the  path  to  haunts  of  flowers 
Through  the  dim  olives  lead  its  gleaming  line; 
I  hear  a  sound  of  flutes— a  swell  of  -?ong — 
Mine  is  too  low  to  reach  that  joyous  throng  I 

"  Oh !  linger,  linger  on  the  oar 
Beneath  my  native  sky  I 

Let  my  life  part  from  that  bright  shore 
With  Day's  last  crimson — gazing  let  me  die  I 
Thou  bark,  glide  slowly  !— slowly  should  be  born* 
The  voyager  that  never  shall  return. 

"  A  fatal  gift  hath  been  thy  dower, 
Lord  of  the  Lyre  !  to  me  ; 

With  song  and  wreath  from  bower  to  bower, 
Sisters  went  bounding  like  young  Oreads  free; 
While  I,  through  long,  lone,  voiceless  hours  apart, 
Have  lain  and  listen'd  to  my  beating  heart. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


193 


"  Now,  wasted  by  the  inborn  lire. 
I  sink  to  early  rest ; 

The  ray  that  lit  the  incense-pyre. 
Leaves  unto  death  its  temple  in  my  breast. 
— O  sunshine,  skies,  rich  Mowers  !  too  soon  I  go, 
While  round  me  thus  triumphantly  ye  glow  I 

"  Bright  Isle!  might  but  thine  echoes  keep 

\  tone  of  rny  farewell, 
One  tender  accent,  low  and  deep, 
Shrined  'midst  thy  founts  and  haunted  rocks  to 

dwell  ! 

Might  my  last  breath  send  music  to  thy  shore! 
—Oh  !  linger,  seamen,  linger  on  the  oar  1" 


AVCIENT  GREEK  CHAUNT  OF  VICTORY 


Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine, 
Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade. 


Byron. 


lo  !  they  come,  they  come  ! 

Garlands  for  every  shrine ! 
Strike  lyres  to  greet  them  home; 

Bring  roses,  pour  ye  wine! 

Swell,  swell  the  Dorian  flute 
Through  the  blue,  triumphant  sky  I 

Let  the  Cittern's  tone  salute 
The  sons  of  victory. 

With  the  oflering  of  bright  blood 
They  have  ransom'd  hearth  and  tomb, 

Vineyard,  and  field,  and  flood  ;— 
lo  !  they  come,  they  comet 

8ing  it  where  olives  wave, 

And  by  the  glittering  sea. 
And  o'er  each  hero's  crave,— 

Sing,  sing,  the  land  is  free  ! 

Mark  ye  the  flashing  oars, 

And  the  spears  that  light  the  deep? 
How  the  festal  sunshine  pours 

Where  the  lords  of  battle  sweep! 

Each  hath  brought  back  his  shield  ;— 
Maid,  greet  thy  lover  home ! 

Mother,  from  that  proud  field, 
lo !  thy  son  is  come  ! 

Who  murniur'd  of  the  dead  ? 

Hush,  boding  voice  !    We  know 
That  many  a  shining  head 

Lies  in  its  glory  low. 

Breathe  not  those  names  to-day  1 
They  shall  have  their  praise  ere  loTig, 

And  a  power  all  hearts  to  sway, 
In  ever-burning  song. 

But  now  shed  flowers,  pour  wine, 
To  hail  the  conquerors  home! 

Bring  wreaths  for  every  shrine— 
lo !  they  come,  they  come  I 


NAPLES. 

A    SONG    OF   THE   SYREN. 


Then  gentle  winds  arose, 

With  many  a  mingled  close, 
of  w\ld  .t'.olian  sound  and  mountain  odour  Keen ; 

Where  the  clear  Baian  ocean 

Welters  with  air-like  motion 
Within,  above,  around  its  bowers  of  starry  green. 

SMlty. 

STILL  is  the  Syren  warbling  on  thy  shore, 
Bright  City  of  the  Waves!— her  magic  song 
Still,  with  a  dreamy  sense  of  ecstasy, 
Fills  thy  soft  summer  air:— and  while  my  glance 

13 


Dwells  on  thy  pictured  loveliness,  that  lay 
Floats  thus  oVr  Fancy's  ear  ;  and  thus  to  thee, 
Daughter  of  Sunshine  !  doth  the  Syren  sing. 

"  Thine  is  the  glad  wave's  flashing  play, 
Thine  is  the  laugh  of  the  golden  day, 
The  golden  day,  and  the  glorious  night, 
And  the  vine  with  its  clusters  all  bathed  in  light  I 
— Forget,  forget,  that  thou  art  not  free! 

Queen  of  the  summer  sea. 

"  Pavour'd  and  crown'd  of  the  earth  and  sky  I 
Thine  are  all  voices  of  melody. 
Wandering  in  moonlight  through  fane  and  tower. 
Floating  o'er  fountain  and  myrtle  bower  ; 
Hark  !  how  they  melt  o'er  thy  glittering  sea  ; 

— Forget  that  thou  art  not  free! 

"  Let  the  wine  flow  in  thy  marble  halls! 
Let  the  lute  answer  thy  fountain  falls! 
And  deck  thy  feasts  with  the  myrtle  bough, 
And  cover  with  roses  thy  glowing  brow  ! 
Queen  of  the  day  and  the  summer  sea, 

Forget  that  thou  art  not  free  !" 


So  doth  the  Syren  sing,  while  sparkling  waves 
Dance  to  herchannt.     But  sternly,  mournfully, 
O  city  of  the  deep!  from  Sybil  grots 
And  Roman  tombs,  the  echoes  of  thy  shore 
Take  up  the  cadence  of  her  strain  alone. 
Murmuring — "  Thou  art,  not  free .'" 


THE  DEATH-SONG  OF  ALCESTIS. 


SHE  came  forth  in  her  bridal  robes  array'd, 
And  'midst  the  graceful  statues,  round  the  hall 
Shedding  the  calm  of  their  celestial  mien. 
Stood  pale,  yet  proudly  beautiful,  as  they: 
Flowers  in  her  bosom,  and  the  star-like  gleam 
Of  jewels  trembling  from  her  braided  hair. 
And  death  upon  her  brow  ! — but  glorious  death ! 
Her  own  heart's  choice,  the  token  and  the  seal 
Of  love,  o'ermastering  love  ;  which,  till  that  hour. 
Almost  an  anguish  in  the  brooding  weight 
Of  its  unutterable  tenderness, 
Had  burden'd  her  full  soul.     But  now,  oh!  now. 
Its  time  was  come — and  from  the  spirit's  depths, 
The  passion  and  the  mighty  melody 
Of  its  immortal  voice,  in  triumph  broke, 
Like  a  strong  rushing  wind! 

The  soft  pure  air, 

Came  floating  through  that  hall ;— the  Grecian  air 
Laden  with  music — flute-notes  from  the  valts, 
Echoes  of  song — the  last  sweet  sounds  of  life; 
And  the  glad  sunshine  of  the  golden  clime 
Stream'd,  as  a  royal  mantle,  round  her  form, 
The  glorified  of  love  !  But  she— she  look'd 
Only  on  him  for  whom  't  was  joy  to  die, 
Deep — deepest,  holiest  joy  !— or  if  a  thought 
Of  the  warm  sunlight,  and  the  scented  breeze, 
And  the  sweet  Dorian  songs,  o'erswopt  the  tide 
Of  her  unswerving  soul— 'twas  but  a  thought 
That  own'd  the  summer-loveliness  of  life 
For  him  a  worthy  offering! — So  she  stood. 
Wrapt  in  bright  silence,  as  entranced  awhile, 
Till  her  eye  kindled,  and  her  quivering  frame 
With  the  swift  breeze  of  inspiration  shook, 
As  the  pale  priestess  trembles  to  the  breath 
Of  inborn  oracles  ! — then  flush'd  her  cheek. 
And  all  the  triumph,  all  the  agony. 
Borne  on  the  battling  waves  of  love  and  death. 
All  from  her  woman's  heart,  in  sudden  song, 
Burst  like  a  fount  of  fire. 

"  I  go,  I  go ! 
Thou  Sun,  thou  golden  Sun,  I  go, 

Far  from  thy  liaht  to  dwell ; 
Thou  shall  not  find  my  place  below, 
Dim  is  that  world— bright  Sun  of  Greece,  farewell  P 

The  Laurel  and  the  glorious  Rose 

Thy  glad  beam  yet  may  see, 
But  where  no  purple  summer  glows, 
O'er  the  dark  wave  /haste  from  them  and  the* 


194 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  AVOKKS. 


Yet  doth  my  spirit  faint  to  part? 

—  I  ii.ourn  thee  not.  O  Sun  ! 
Joy,  solemn  joy,  o'erflows  my  heart, 
Sing  me  triumphal  songs!— my  crown  is  wont 

Let  not  a  voice  of  weeping  rise  ! 

My  heart  is  girt  with  power! 
Let  the  green  earth  and  festal  skies 
Laugh  as  to  grace  a  conqueror's  closing  hour) 

For  thee,  for  thee,  my  bosom's  lord  I 

Thee,  my  soul's  loved  !  I  die  ; 
•     Thine  is  the  torch  of  life  restored. 
Mine,  mine  the  rapture,  mine  the  victory! 

Now  may  the  boundless  love,  that  lay 

Unfatliom'd  still  h-fore, 
In  one  consuming  burst  rind  way, 
In  one  bright  flood  all,  all  its  riches  pour  I 

Thouknow'st.thouknow'st  what  love  is  now/ 

Its  glory  and  its  might — 
Are  they  not  written  on  my  brow? 
And  will  that  image  ever  quit  thy  sight? 

No!  deathless  in  thy  faithful  breast, 

There  shall  my  meinnry  keep 
Its  own  bright  altar-place  of  rest, 
While  o'er  my  grave  the  cypress-branches  weep. 

—Oh !  the  glad  light !— the  light  is  fair, 

The  soft  breeze  warm  and  free, 

And  rich  notes  fill  the  scented  air. 

And  all  are  gifts— ray  love's  last  gifts  to  thee  I 

Take  me  to  thy  warm  heart  once  morel 

Night  falls — my  pulse  beats  low — 
Seek  not  to  quicken,  to  restore, 
Joy  is  in  every  pang— I  go,  I  go ! 

I  feel  thy  tears,  I  feel  thy  breath, 

I  meet  thy  fond  look  still ; 
Keen  is  the  strife  of  love  and  death; 
Faint  and  yet  fainter  grows  my  bosom's  thrill 

Yet  swells  the  tide  of  rapture  strong. 
Though  mists  o'ershade  mine  eye  ; 
— Sing,  I'iran  !  sing  a  conqueror's  song! 
For  thee,  for  thee,  my  spirit's  lord,  I  die!" 


THE  FALL  OF  D'ASSA& 

A   BALLAD  OF  FRANCE. 


The  Chevalier  I)' Assns,  called  the  French  Deciui.  fell 
nobly  whilst  reconnoitring  a  wood,  near  Closterkamp, 
by  niclil.  He  had  left  his  regiment,  that  of  Auvergne, 
at  a  short  distance,  and  was  suddenly  surrounded  by  an 
ambuscade  of  the  enemy,  who  threatened  him  with  in- 
itiiiit  death  if  hu  made  the  least  sign  of  their  vicinity. 
With  their  bayonets  at  his  breast,  he  raised  his  voice, 
and  calling  aloud  "  A  mui,  Avergne  !  ce  sont  les  eiino- 
mis !"  fell,  pierced  with  mortal  blows. 


ALONE  through  gloomy  forest  shades 

A  soldier  went  by  night; 
No  moonbeam  pierced  the  dusky  glades. 

No  star  shed  guiding  light. 

Yet  on  his  vigil's  midnight  round, 

The  youth  all  cheerly  pass'd  ; 
Uncheck'd  by  aught  of  boding  sound 

That  mutterV.  in  the  blast. 

Where  were  his  thoughts  that  lonely  hour? 

— In  his  far  home,  perchance ; 
His  father's  hall,  his  mother's  bower, 

'Midst  the  gay  vines  of  France: 

Wandering  from  battles  lost  and  won. 

To  hi'ar  and  hlcss  again 
The  rolling  of  ih«  wild  Garonne, 

Ur  murmur  of  the  Seine. 


—Hush!  Hark  !— did  stealing  steps  gT  by' 
Came  not  faint  whispers  near? 

No!  the  wild  wind  hath  many  a  sigh 
Amidst  the  foliage  sere. 

Hark,  yet  again  ! — and  from  his  hand. 
What  grasp  hath  wrench'd  the  blade? 

—Oh!  single 'midst  a  hostile  band, 
Young  soldier',  thou'rt  betray 'd  I 

"Silence!"  in  undertones  th^y  cry— 

"  No  whisper — not  a  breath! 
The  sound  that  warns  thy  comrades  nigh 

Shall  sentence  thee  to  death." 

— Still,  at  the  bayonet's  point  he  stood. 
And  strong  to  meet  the  blow; 

And  shouted,  'midst  his  rushing  blood, 
"  Arm,  arm,  Au  ve  rgne !  the  foe !" 

The  stir,  the  tramp,  the  bugle-call— 

He  heard  their  tumults  grow; 
And  sent  his  dying  voice  through  all— 

"Auvergne,  Jluverpne!  the  foe!" 


BURIAL  OF  WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR, 

AT  CAEN,   IN   NORMANDY. — 1087. 


"At  the  day  appointed  for  the  king's  interment,  Prince 
Henry,  his  third  son.  the  Norman  prelates,  and  a  multi- 
tude of  clergy  and  people,  assembled  in  the  Church  of 
St.  Stephen,  which  the  Conqueror  had  founded.  Th» 
mass  had  been  performed,  the  corse  was  placed  on  the 
oier,  and  the  Bishop  of  Evreux  had  pronounced  th« 
panegyric  on  the  deceased,  when  a  voice  from  the  crowd 
exclaimed,—'  He  whom  yon  have  praised,  was  a  robber. 
The  very  land  on  which  you  stand  is  mine.  By  violence 
he  took  it  from  my  father;  and,  in  the  name  of  God,  I 
forbid  y  to  bury  him  in  it.'  The  speaker  was  Ascc- 
line  Fitz  Arthur,  who  had  often,  but  fruitlessly,  gnueht 
reparation  from  the  justice  of  William.  After  some  <!»•• 
bate,  the  prelates  called  him  to  them,  paid  him  sixty  shil- 
lings for  the  grave,  and  promised  that  he  should  receive 
the  full  value  of  bis  land.  The  ceremony  was  then  con- 
tinued, and  the  body  of  the  king  deposited  in  a  coffin  o. 
•tone." Lmgard,  Vol.  II.  p.  98. 


LOWLY  upon  his  bier 

The  royal  Conqueror  lay  ; 
Baron  and  chief  stood  near, 

Silent  in  war-array. 

Down  the  long  minster's  aisle 
Crowds  mutely  gazing  stream'd. 

Altar  and  tomb  the  while 
Through  mists  of  incense  gleam'd 

And  by  the  torches'  blaze, 

The  stately  priest  had  said 
High  words  of  power  and  praise 

To  the  glory  of  the  dead. 

They  lower'd  him,  with  the  sound 

Of  requiems,  to  repose  ; 
When  from  the  throngs  around 

A  solemn  voice  arose: — 

"Forbear!  forbear !"  it  cried, 
"  In  the  holiest  name,  forbear) 

He  hath  conquer'd  regions  wide, 
But  he  shall  not  slumber  there  I 

"By  the  violated  hearth 

Which  made  way  for  yon  proud  shrint  • 
By  the  harvests  which  this  earth 

Hath  borne  for  me  and  mine  ; 

"  By  the  house  e'en  here  o'erthrown, 
On  my  brethren's  native  spot; 

Hence!  \\ith  his  dark  renown, 
rumbor  our  birth-place  not  I 


HEMANS*  POETICAL  WORKS. 


196 


"Will  my  sire's  unransom'd  field, 
O'er  which  your  censers  wave, 

To  the  buried  spoiler  yield 
Soft  slumbers  in  the  grave? 

"The  tree  before  him  fell, 

Which  we  cherish'd  many  a  year, 
But  its  deep  root  yet  shall  swell, 

And  heave  against  his  bier. 

"The  land  that  I  have  tilPd 

Hath  yet  its  brooding  breast 
With  my  home's  white  ashes  fill'd, 

And  it  shall  not  give  him  rest  I 

'  Each  pillar's  massy  bed 

Hath  been  wet  by  weeping  eyes— 
Away!  bestow  your  dead 

Where  no  wrong  against  him  cries." 

Shame  glow'd  on  each  dark  face 
Of  those  proud  and  steel-eirt  men, 

And  they  bought  with  srold  a  place 
For  their  leader's  dust  e'en  then. 

A  little  earth  for  him 

Whose  banner  flew  so  far! 
And  a  peasant's  tale  could  dim 

The  name,  a  nation's  star  I 

Ont  deep  voice  thus  arose 

From  a  heart  which  wrongs  had  riven, 
Oh  I  who  shall  number  those 

That  were  but  heard  in  heaven  1 


CHORUS. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  ALCESTIS  OF  ALFIERL 


(In  the  icene  where  the  dying  Alcestis  has  bid  farewell 
to  her  husband  and  children.) 

(ATTENDANTS   OF   ALCESTIS.) 

PEACR,  mourners,  peace ! 
Be  hush'd,  be  silent,  in  this  hour  of  dread  I 

Our  cries  would  but  increase 
The  sufferer's  pangs ;  let  tears  unheard  be  shed. 

Cease,  voice  of  weeping,  cease  ! 

Sustain,  O  friend! 

Upon  thy  faithful  breast, 
The  head  that  sinks,  with  mortal  pain  opprestl 

And  thou,  assistance  lend 

To  close  the  languid  eye. 
Still  beautiful,  in  life's  last  agony, 

Alasl  how  long  a  strife! 
What  anguish  struggles  in  the  parting  breath, 

Ere  yet  immortal  life 

Be  won  by  death ! 
Death!  Death!  thy  work  complete  I 
Let  thy  sad  hour  be  fleet, 
Speed,  in  thy  mercy,  the  releasing  sigh  I 

No  more  keen  pangs  impart 

To  her,  the  high  in  heart, 
The  adored  Alcestis,  worthy  ne'er  to  die. 

(ATTENDANTS  OF  ADMETUS.) 

'Tis  not  enough,  oh!  no! 
To  hide  the  scene  of  anguish  from  his  eyes; 

StMl  must  our  silent  band 

Around  him  watchful  stand, 
And  on  the  mourner  ceaseless  care  bestow, 
That  his  ear  catch  not  grief's  funereal  criei 

Yet,  yet  hope  is  not  dead, 
All  is  not  lost  below, 
Whilo  yet  the  gods  have  pity  on  our  woe. 


Oft  When  an  Joy  Is  fled. 
Heaven  lends  support  to  those 
Vho  on  its  care  in  pious  hope  repose. 
Then  to  the  blessed  skies 
our  submissive  prayers  in  chorus  rise. 

Pray!  pray!  pray! 
What  other  task  have  mortals,  born  to  tears, 
Vhom  fate  controls,  with  adamantine  swav? 

O  ruler  of  the  spheres ! 
love!  Jove!  enthroned  immortally  on  high, 

Our  supplication  hear ! 

Nor  plunge  in  bitterest  woes, 
Him,  who  nor  footstep  moves,  nor  lifts  his  eye, 

But  as  a  child,  which  only  knows 

Its  father  to  revere. 


SONGS  OF  A  GUARDIAN  SPIRIT. 
I. 


HEAR  THEE,  STILI.  HEAR  THEE  1* 

NEAR  thee,  still  near  thee  1-o'er  thy  path-v  ij 

Unseen  I  pass  thee  with  the  wind's  low  sigh ; 
Life'*  veil  enfolds  thee  still,  our  eyes  dividing. 
Yet  viewless  love  floats  round  thee  silently  I 

Not  'midst  the  festal  throng. 

In  halls  of  mirth  and  song; 

But  when  thy  thoughts  are  deepest, 

When  holy  tears  thou  weenest, 

Know  then  that  love  is  nigh  1 

When  the  night's  whisper  o'er  thy  harp-stringl 

creeping, 

Or  the  sea-music  on  the  sounding  shore, 
Or  breezy  anthems  through  the  forest  sweeping, 
Shall  move  thy  trembling  spirit  to  adore  ; 

When  every  thought  and  prayer 
We  loved  to  breathe  and  share. 
On  thy  full  heart  returning. 
Shall  wake  its  voiceless  yearning; 

Then  feel  me  near  once  more ! 

Near  thee,  still  near  thee !— trust  thy  soul's  deep 

dreaming! 

—Oh !  love  is  not  an  earthly  Rose  to  die ! 
Ev'n  when  I  soar  where  fiery  stars  are  beaming. 
Thine  image  wanders  with  me  through  the  sky. 

The  fields  of  air  are  free, 
Yet  lonely,  wanting  thee  ; 
But  when  thy  chains  are  falling, 
When  heaven  its  own  is  calling, 

Know    then,  thy  guide  is  nigh! 


THE  SISTERS-f 

A    BALLAD. 

« I  go,  sweet  sister ;  yet,  my  heart  would  linger 
with  thee  fain, 

And  unto  every  parting  gift  some  deep  remem- 
brance chain ; 

Take  then  the  braid  of  EaWern  pearls  which  once 
I  loved  to  wear. 

And  with  it  bind  for  festal  scenes  the  dark  waves 
of  thy  hair! 


•  Thi«  piece  tiM  oeen  »et  to  mmie  of  mott  inrpmriTC  beauty  by 
John  l/xJee,  E«q-,  far  who»e  competition  several  of  the  authors 


t  Tr,i«  rmlM  w»«  eompored  for  a  «ind  ol  dra 
r.VvH  bv  niunic.      It  "a"  Own  performed  by  t 

ichh  accin>iilii.t.t- 


p»cefttl  wd 


.96 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Ita  pale  pure  brightness  will  beseem  those  raven 

tresses  well, 
And  I  shall  need  such  pomp  no  more  in  my  lone 

convent  cell." 

••  Oh  speak  not  thus,  my  Leonor  1  why  part  from 

kindred  love  ? 
Through  festive  scenes  when  thou  art  gone— my 

steps  no  more  shall  move  I 
How  could  I  bear  a  lonely  heart  amid  a  reckless 

throng  ? 
I  should  but  miss  earth's  dearest  voice  in  every 

tone  of  song ; 
Keep,  keep  the  braid  of  Eastern  pearls,  or  let  me 

proudly  twine 
Its  wreath  once  more  around  that  brow,  that 

queenly  brow  of  thine." 

"  Oh  wouldst  thou  strive  a  wounded  bird  from 

shelter  to  detain? 
Or  wouldst  thou  call  a  spirit  freed,  to  weary  life 

again? 
Sweet  sister,  take  the  golden  cross  that  I  have 

worn  so  long. 
And  bathed  with  many  a  burning  tear  for  secret 

woe  and  wrong. 
It  could  not  still  my  beating  heart !  but  may  it  be 

a  sign 
Of  peace  and  hope,  my  gentle  one!  when  meekly 

press'd  to  thine !" 

"Take  back,  take  back   the  cross  of  gold,  our 

mother's  gift  to  thee, 

I  would  but  of  this  parting  hour,  a  bitter  token  be ; 
With  funeral  splendour  to  mine  eye,  it  would  but 

sadly  shine. 
And  tell  of  early  treasures  lost,  of  joy  no  longer 

mine! 
Oh  sister!  if  thy  heart  be  thus  with  buried  gnef 

oppress'd, 
Where  wouldst  thou  pour  it  forth  so  well,  u  o» 

my  faithful  breast  ?" 

"  Urge  me  no  more  !  a  blight  hath  fallen  upon  my 

summer  years ! 
I  should  but  darken  thy  young  life  with  fruitless 

pangs  and  fears ; 
But  take  at  least  the  lute  I  loved,  and  guard  it  for 

my  sake, 
And  sometimes,  from  its  silvery  strings  one  tone 

of  .nernory  wake ! 
Sing  to  those  chords  by  starlight's  gleam  our  own 

sweet  vesper  hymn. 
And  think  that  I  ibo  chant  it  then,  far  in  my 

cloister  dim." 

•Yes,  I  will  take  the  silvery  lute— and  I  will  sine 

to  thee 
A  song  we  heard  in  childhood's  days,  ev'n  from 

our  father's  knee. 
Oh  sister  !  sister !  are  these  notes  amid  forgotten 

things? 
Do  they  not  linger  as  in  love,  on  the  familiar 

strings? 
Seems  not  our  sainted  mother's  voice  to  murmur 

in  the  strain  ? 
Kind  sister !  gentlest  Leonor  1  say,  shall  it  plead  in 

vain? 

BONG. 

"  Leave  us  not,  leave  us  not  1 

Say  not  adieu  I 
Have  we  not  been  to  the* 

Tender  and  true  ? 

"  Take  not  thy  gunny  smile 

Far  from  our  hearth  1 
With  that  sweet  light  will  rid* 

Summer  and  mirth. 

••  Leave  us  not,  leave  us  not! 

Can  thy  heart  roam  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  pine  to  hear 
.  Voices  from  h  >me  ? 


"  Too  sad  our  love  would  be, 

If  thou  wert  gone! 
Turn  to  us,  leave  us  not  I 

Thou  art  our  own!" 

"  Oh  sister,  hush  that  thrilling  lute,  oh  cease  that 

haunting  lay, 
Too  deeply  pierce  those  wild  sweet  notes ;  yet,  yet 

1  cannot  stay, 
For  weary— weary  is  my  heart !  I  hear  a  whisper'd 

call 
In  every  Ireeze  that  stirs  the  leaf  and  bids  the 

blossom  fall. 
I  cannot  breathe  in  freedom  here,  my  spirit  pines    ' 

to  dwell 
« Where  the  world's  voice  can  reach  no  more  1 — ok   ' 

calm  thee  !  Fare  thee  well  I" 


SONGS  OF  A  GUARDIAN  SPIRIT. 
II. 

OH!   DROOP  THOD  NOT  I 


They  tin  who  tell  us  lore  can  die. 

With  life  all  other  passions  ay ; 

All  others  are  but  vanity. 

In  heaven  ambition  cannot  dwell, 

Nor  avarice  in  the  vaults  of  hell. 

Earthly  these  passions,  as  of  earth— 

They  perish  where  they  drew  their  birth. 

But  love  is  indestructible ! 

Its  holy  flame  for  ever  bnrneth ; 

From  heaven  it  came,  to  heaven  retnrneth. 


OH!  droop  thou  not,  my  gentle  earthly  lovel 

Mine  still  to  be  ! 
I  bore  through  death,  to  brighter  lands  above 

My  thoughts  of  thee. 

Yes!  the  deep  memory  of  our  hoty  tears, 

Our  mingled  prayer, 
Our  suffi-ring  love,  through  long  devoted  years. 

Went  with  me  there. 

It  was  not  vain,  the  hallow'd  and  the  tried — 

It  was  not  vain  ! 
Still,  though  unseen,  still  hovering  at  thy  side, 

I  watch  again  ! 

From  our  own  paths,  our  love's  attesting  bowers, 

I  am  not  gone; 
In  the  deep  calm  of  midnight's  whispering  hours, 

Thou  art  not  lone: 

Not  lone,  when  by  the  haunted  stream  thou  weepest. 

That  stream,  whose  tone 
Murmurs  of  thoughts,  the  richest  and  the  deepest. 

We  two  have  known  : 

Not  lone,  when  mournfully  some  strain  awaking 

Of  days  long  past. 
Prom  thy  soft  eyes  the  sudden  tears  are  breaking, 

Silent  and  fast: 

Not  lone,  when  upwards,  in  fond  visions  turning 

Thy  dreamy  glance, 

Thou  seek'st  my  home,  where  solemn  stars  are 
burning, 

O'er  night's  expanse. 

My  home  is  near  thee,  loved  one  !  and  around  thee. 

Where'er  thou  art; 
Tbo'  still  mortality's  thick  cloud  bath  bound  tbee. 

Doubt  not  thy  heart ! 

Hear  its  low  voice,  nor  deem  thyself  forsaken- 
Let  faith  be  given 

To  the  still  tones  which  oft  our  being  wakei  — 
They  are  of  heaven  t 


HEMATCS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


197 


MIGNON'S    SONG. 

TRANSLATED    FROM    GOETHE. 

Mignon,  a  young  and  enthusiastic  girl,  (the  character 
in  one  of  Goethe's  romances,  from  which  Sir  Walter 
Scott's  Fenella  is  partially  imitated,)  lias  been  stolen 
away,  in  early  childhood,  from  Italy.  Her  vague  reco 
lections  of  that  land,  and  of  her  early  home,  with  its 
graceful  sculptures  and  pictured  saloons,  are  perpetually 
haunting  her,  and  at  times  break  forth  into  the  following 
sung.  The  original  has  been  set  to  exquisite  music,  by 
Zelter.  the  friend  of  Goethe. 


Kennst  du  da»  Land  wo  die  Citronen  bluho  ? 

KNOW'ST  thou  the  land  where  bloom  the  Citron 

bowers. 

Where  the  gold-orange  lights  the  dusky  prove? 
High  waves  the  laurel  there,  the  myrtle  flowers, 
And  thro'  a  still  blue  heaven  the  sweet  winds  rove 
Know'st  thou  it  well? 

— There,  there,  with  thee, 
O  friend,  O  loved  one  !  fain  my  steps  would  flee. 

Know'st  thou  the  dwelling  ? — there  the  pillars  rise, 
Soft  shines  the  hall,  the  painted  chambers  glow ; 
And  forms  of  marble  seem  with  pitying  eyes 
To  say — "  Poor  child !  what  thus  hath  wrought  thee 

woe  ?" 
Know'st  thou  it  well  ? 

There,  there  with  thee, 
O  my  protector !  homewards  might  I  flee ! 

Know'st  thou  the  mountain  ?— high  its  bridge  is 

hung, 

Where  the  mule  seeks  thro' mist  and  cloud  his  way ; 
There  lurk  the  dragon-race,  deep  caves  among. 
O'er  beetling  rocks  there  foams  the  torrent  spray 
Know'st  thou  it  well  ? 

With  thee,  with  thee. 
There  lies  my  path,  O  father  1  let  us  flee  t 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  SAPPHO. 


Suggested  by  a  beautiful  sketch,  the  design  of  the 
younger  Westmacott.  It  represents  Sappho  sitting  on  a 
rock  above  the  sea,  with  her  lyre  cast  at  her  feet.  There 
is  a  desolate  grace  about  the  whole  figure,  which  seemi 
penetrated  with  the  feeling  of  ut'er  abandonment. 


SOUND  on,  thou  dark  unslumbering  sea  I 

My  dirge  is  in  thy  moan  : 
My  spirit  finds  response  in  thee, 
To  its  own  ceaseless  cry — "  Alone,  alone  1" 

Yet  send  me  back  one  other  word, 

Ye  tones  that  never  cease ! 
Oh!  let  your  secret  caves  be  stirr'd, 
And  say,  dark  waters !  will  ye  give  me  peace? 

Away!  my  weary  soul  hath  sought 

In  vain  one  echoing  sigh, 
One  answer  to  consuming  thought 
In  human  hearts — and  will  the  ware  reply  ? 

Sound  on,  thou  dark  unslumbering  sea  ! 
.    Sound  in  thy  scorn  and  pride! 
I  ask  not,  alien  world,  from  thee, 
"Vhat  my  own  kindred  earth  hath  still  denied. 

And  yet  I  Joved  that  earth  so  well, 

With  all  its  lovely  things! 
— Was  it  for  this  the  death-wind  fell 
On  my  rich  lyre,  and  quench'd  its  living  strings? 

— Let  them  lie  silent  at  my  feet! 

Since  broken  even  as  they, 
The  heart  whose  music  made  them  sweet. 
Hath  pour'd  on  desert-sands  its  wealth  away. 

Yet  glory's  light  hath  touch'd  my  name. 

The  laurel-wreath  is  o   ne— 
— With  a  lone  heart,  a  weary  frame — 
O  restless  deep !  I  come  to  make  them  thine  ) 


Give  to  that  crown,  that  burning  crown, 

Place  in  thy  darkest  hoM  ! 
Bury  my  anguish,  my  renown, 
With  hidden  wrecks,  lost  gems,  and  wasted  gold 

Thou  sea-bird  on  the  billow's  crest, 

T/iou  hast  thy  love,  thy  home ; 
They  wait  thee  in  the  quiet  nest, 
And  I,  th'  unsought,  unwatch'd-for— I  too  come' 

I,  with  this  winged  nature  fraught, 

These  visions  wildly  free, 
This  boundless  love,  this  fiery  thought — 
—Alone  I  come  -oh !  give  me  peace,  dark  sea 


DIRGE. 


WHERE  shall  we  make  her  grave  ? 
— Oh !  where  the  wild-flowers  wave 

In  the  free  air! 

Where  shower  and  singing-bird 
'Midst  the  young  leaves  are  heard— 

There— lay  her  there! 

Harsh  was  the  world  to  her — 
Now  may  sleep  minister 

Balm  for  each  ill : 
Low  on  sweet  nature's  breast, 
Let  the  meek  heart  find  rest, 

Deep,  deep  and  still  1 

Murmur,  glad  waters,  by! 
Faint  gales,  with  hnppy  sigh. 

Come  wandering  o'er 
That  green  and  mossy  bed. 
Where,  on  a  gentle  head, 

Storms  beat  no  morel 

What  though  for  her  in  vain 
Falls  now  the  bright  spring-rain. 
Plays  the  soft  wind ; 

Yet  still,  from  where  she  liee. 
Should  blessed  breathings  rise, 
Gracious  and  kind. 

Therefore  let  song  and  dew 
Thence,  in  the  heart  renew 

Life's  vernal  glow! 
And,  o'er  that  holy  earth 
Scents  of  the  violet's  birth 

Still  come  and  go  I 

Oh !  then  where  wild-flowers  w*ve. 

Make  ye  her  mossy  grave 
In  the  free  air  I 

Where  shower  and  singing-bird 

'Midst  the  young  leaves  are  beard- 
There,  lay  her  there  1 


A  SONG  OF  THE  ROSE. 


Coil  flor  di  verrai  che  non  toggiace 

All  'acqua,  >I  gelo,  al  vento  ed  allo  schenm, 

IV  una  itagion  volubile  e  fugace ; 

E  *  pin  fido  Cultor  potto  in  governo, 

Cnir  potrai  Delia  tnnquilU  pace, 

Ad  eterna  Bellezza  odore  eterno. 


Rose  1  what  dost  thou  here  ? 

Bridal,  royal  rose  ? 
How,  'midst  grief  and  fear, 
Canst  thou  thus  disclose 

That  fervid  hue  of  love,  which  to  tliy  heart-leaf 
glows  ? 

Rose  !  too  much  array'd 
For  triumphal  hours, 
Look'st  ttiou  through  the  shade 

Of  these  mortal  bowers, 

Not  to  disturb  my  soul,  thou  crown'd  one  of  all 
flowers  I 


198 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


As  an  eagle  soaring 

Through  a  sunny  sky. 
As  a  clarion  pouring 

Notes  of  victory, 

So  dost  ikou  kindle  thoughts,  for  earthly  life  too 
high. 

Thoughts  of  rapture,  flushing 

Youthful  poet's  cheek  : 
Thoughts  of  glory,  rushing 

Forth  in  song  to  break. 
But  finding  the  spring-tide  of  rapid  song  too  weak. 

Yet,  oh  !  festal  rose, 

I  have  seen  thee.  lying 
In  thy  bright  repose 

Pillow'd  with  the  dying, 

Th$  crimson  by  the  lip  whence  life's  quick  blood 
was  flying. 

Summer,  hope,  and  love 

O'er  that  bed  of  pain, 
Met  in  thee,  yet  wove 

Too,  too  frail  a  chain 
In  its  embracing  links  the  lovely  to  detain. 

Smil'st  thou,  gorgeous  flower? 

—Oh!  within  the  spella 
Of  thy  beauty's  power, 

Something  dimly  dwells, 

At  variance  with  a  world  of  sorrows  and  fare 
wells. 

All  the  soul  forth  flowing 

In  that  rich  perfume, 
All  the  proud  life  glowing 
In  that  radiant  bloom,— 

Have  they  n  >  place  but  here,  beneath  th'  o'ersha 
dowing  tomb? 

Crown'st  thou  but  the  daughters 

Of  our  tearful  race  ? 
— Heaven's  own  purest  waters 

Well  might  wear  the  trace 
Of  thy  consummate  form,  melting  to  softer  grace 

Will  that  clime  enfold  thee 

With  immortal  air  ? 
Shall  we  not  behold  thee 

Bright  and  deathless  there? 
iii  spirit-lustre  eloth'd,  transcendantly  more  fair? 

Yes !  my  fancy  sees  thee 

In  that  light  disclose. 
And  its  dream  thus  frees  thee 

From  the  mist  of  woes, 

Darkening  thine  earthly  bowers,  O  bridal,  royal 
rose  I 


NIGHT-BLOWING  FLOWERS, 


CHILDREN  of  night!  unfolding  meekly,  slowly 
To  the  sweet  breathings  of  the  shadowy  hours, 
When  dark-blue  heavens  look  softest  and  most 

holy. 

And  glow-worm  light  is  in  the  forest  bowers; 
'       To  solemn  things  and  deep, 
To  spirit-haunted  sleep, 
To  thoughts,  all  purified 
From  earth,  ye  seem  allied ; 
O  dedicated  flowers  1 

Ye,  from  the  gaze  of  crowds  your  beauty  veiling. 
Keep  in  dim  vestal  urns  the  sweetness  shrined ; 
Till  the  mild  moon,  on  high  serenely  sailing, 
Looks  on  you  tenderly  and  sadly  kind. 
— So  doth  love's  dreaming  heart 
Dwell  from  the  throng  apart, 
And  but  to  shades  disclose 
The  inmost  thought  which  glows 
With  its  pure  life  entwined. 

Shut  from  the  sounds  wherein  the  day  rejoices, 
To  no  triumphant  song  your  petals  thrill. 
But  send  forth  odours  with  the  faint  soft  voices 
Rising  from  hidden  streams,  when  all  is  still. 


So  doth  lone  prayer  arise, 
Mingling  with  secret  sighs, 
When  grief  unfolds,  like  you, 
Her  breast,  for  heavenly  dew 
In  silent  hours  to  fill. 


THE 
WANDERER  AND  THE  NIGHT  FLOWERS 


CA.IL  back  your  odours,  lovely  flowers, 
From  the  night-winds  call  them  back, 

And  fold  your  leaves  till  the  laughing  hours 
Come  forth  in  the  sunbeam's  track. 

The  lark  lies  couch'd  in  her  grassy  nest, 

And  the  honey-bee  is  gone. 
And  all  bright  things  are  away  to  rest. 

Why  watch  ye  here  alone  ? 

Is  not  your  world  a  mournful  one, 
When  your  sisters  close  their  eyes, 

And  your  soft  breath  meets  not  a  lingering  tone 
Of  song  in  the  starry  skies? 

Take  ye  no  joy  in  the  day-spring's  birth. 
When  it  kindles  the  sparks  of  dew  ? 

And  the  thousand  strains  of  the  forest's  mirth, 
Shall  they  gladden  all  but  you  ? 

Shut  your  sweet  bells  till  the  fawn  comes  out 

On  the  sunny  turf  to  play. 
And  the  woodland  child  with  a  fairy  shout 

Goes  dancing  on  its  way  1 

"Nay,  let  our  shadowy  beauty  bloom 

When  the  stars  give  quiet  light, 
And  let  us  offer  our  faint  perfume 

On  the  silent  shrine  of  night. 

"Call  it  not  wasted,  the  scent  we  tend 
To  the  breeze,  when  no  step  is  nigh: 

Oh  thus  for  ever  the  earth  should  send 
Her  grateful  breath  on  high! 

"And  love  us  as  emblem*,  night's  dewy  flowers 

Of  hopes  unto  sorrow  given, 
That  spring  through  the  gloom  of  the  darkest 
hours, 

Looking  alone  to  heaven  !' 


ECHO-SONG. 


IN  thy  cavern -hall. 

Echo!  art  thou  sleeping? 
By  the  fountain's  fall 
Dreamy  silence  keeping? 
Yet  one  soft  note  borne 
From  the  shepherd's  horn, 
Wakes  thee,  Echo!  into  music  leaping! 
—Strange  sweet  Echo !  into  music  leaping. 

Then  the  woods  rejoice, 

Then  glad  sounds  are  swelling 
From  each  sister-voice 
Round  thy  rocky  dwelling; 
And  their  sweetness  fills 
All  the  hollow  hills, 

With  a  thousand  notes,  of  one  life  telling ! 
— Softly  mingled  notes,  of  one  life  telling. 

Echo !  in  my  heart 

Thus  deep  thoughts  are  lying, 
Silent  and  apart, 
Buried,  yet  undying. 
Till  some  gentle  tone 
Wakening  haply  one, 
Calls  a  thousand  forth,  like  thee  replying ! 
—  Strange  sweet  Echo!  even  like  thee  replying.1 

"  Thi»  K>HJ  a  in  tbe  poHMiion  oj  M  .  Power 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


199 


THE  MUFFLED  DRUM* 


THE  muffled  drum  was  heard 

In  the  Pyrenees  by  nighl. 
With  a  dull  deep  rolling  sound 

Which  told  the  hamlets  round 
Of  a  soldier's  burial  rite. 

But  it  told  them  not  how  dear 

In  a  home  beyond  the  main, 
Was  the  warrior  youth  laid  low  that  hour, 

By  a  mountain  stream  of  Spain. 

The  oaks  of  England  waved 

O'er  the  slumbers  of  his  race, 
But  a  pine  of  the  Ronceval  made  moan 

Above  his  last  lone  place : 

When  the  muffled  drum  was  beard 

In  the  Pyrenees  by  night, 
With  a  dull  deep  rolling  sound 

Which  call'd  strange  echoes  round 
To  the  soldier's  burial  rite. 

Brief  was  the  sorrowing  there, 
By  the  stream  from  battle  red, 

And  tossing  on  its  wave  the  plumes 
Of  many  a  stately  head  ; 

But  a  mother — soon  to  die, 

And  a  sister — long  to  weep, 
Ev'n  then  were  breathing  prayer  for  him, 

In  that  home  beyond  the  deep : 

While  the  muffled  drum  was  heard 

In  the  Pyrenees  by  night, 
With  a  dull  deep  rolling  sound, 

And  the  dark  pines  inourn'd  around. 
O'er  the  soldier's  burial  rite. 


THE  SWAN  AND  THE  SKY-LARK. 


Adieu,  adieu !  my  plaintive  anthem  fades 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
ID  the  next  valley  -glade*. 

Ktatt. 
Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  tbou  springest 
Like  a  clou!  of  fire ; 

The  blue  deep  (hou  w ingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

Shelley. 


•MIDST  the  long  reeds  that  o'er  a  Grecian  stream 
Unto  the  faint  wind  sigh'd  melodiously, 
And  where  the  sculpture  of  a  broken  shrine 
Sent  out,  through  shadowy  grass  and  thick  wild 

flowers, 

Dim  alabaster  gleams— a  lonely  Swan 
Warbled  his  death-chaunt ;  and  a  poet  stood 
Listening  to  that  strange  music,  as  it  shook 
The  lilies  on  the  wave ;  and  made  the  pines 
And  all  the  laurels  of  the  haunted  shore 
Thrill  to  its  passion.    Oh  !  the  tones  were  sweet 
Ev'n  painfully— as  with  the  sweetness  rune 
Prom  parting  love ;  and  to  the  Poet's  thought 
TAis  was  their  language. 

"  Summer,  I  depart ! 

O  light  and  laughing  summer,  fare  thee  well  I 
No  song  the  less  thro'  thy  rich  woods  will  swell 

For  one,  one  broken  heart. 

And  fare  ye  well,  young  flowers  I 
Ye  will  not  mourn  I  ye  will  shed  odour  still, 
And  wave  in  glory,  colouring  every  rill, 

Known  to  my  youth's  fresh  hours! 


•  Set  to  beautiful  m.wic  by  John  Ixxlge,  Esq. 


And  ye,  bright  founts,  that  lie 
Far  in  the  whispering  forests,  lone  and  deep, 
My  wing  no  more  shall  stir  your  shadowy  sleep— 

— Sweet  waters  !  (  must  die. 

Will  ye  not  send  one  tone 
Of  sorrow  thro'  the  pines?— one  murmur  low? 
Shall  not  the  green  leaves  from  your  voices  know 

That  I,  your  child,  am  gone? 

No,  ever  glad  and  free  I 
Ye  have  no  sounds  a  tale  of  death  to  tell, 
Waves,  joyous  waves,  flow  on,  and  fare  ye  well  I 

Ye  will  not  mourn  for  me. 

But  thou,  sweet  boon,  too  late 
Pour'd  on  my  parting  breath,  vain  gift  of  song! 
Why  coin's!  thou  thus,  o'ermastering,  rich  and 
strong. 

In  the  dark  hour  of  fate  ? 

Only  to  wake  the  sighs 
Of  echo  voices  from  their  sparry  cell ; 
Only  to  say — "  O  sunshine  and  blue  skies  1 

O  life  and  love,  farewell  !" 

Thus  flow'd  the  death-chaunt  on ;  while  mournfully 
Low  winds  and  waves  made  answer,  and  the  tones 
Buried  in  rocks  along  the  Grecian  stream, 
Rocks  and  dim  caverns  of  old  Prophecy, 
Woke  to  respond :  and  all  the  air  was  fill'd 
With  that  one  sighing  sound — "  Farewell,  Fare- 
well !" 
—Fill'd  with  that  sound?  high  in  the  calm  blue 

heaven 

Ev'n  then  a  Sky-lark  hung;  soft  summer  clouds 
Were  floating  round  him.  all  transpierced  with 

light. 

And  'midst  that  pearly  radiance  his  dark  wings 
(luiver'd  with  song:— such  free  triumphant  song, 
As  if  tears  were  not, — as  if  breaking  hearts 
Had  not  a  place  below— and  thus  that  strain 
Spoke  to  the  Poet's  ear  exultingly. 

"  The  summer  is  come  ;  she  hath  said,  •  Rejoice !' 
The  wild  woods  thrill  to  her  merry  voice ; 
Her  sweet  brenth  is  wandering  around,  on  high ; 
— Sing,  sing  thro'  the  echoing  sky  I 

"There  is  joy  in  the  mountains;  the  bright  wavei 

leap. 

Like  the  bounding  stag  when  he  breaks  from  sleep; 
Mirthfully,  wildly,  they  flash  along— 

— Let  the  heavens  ring  with  song  1 

"There  is  joy  in  the  forests;  the  bird  of  night 
Hath  made  the  leaves  tremble  with  deep  delight; 
But  mine  is  the  glory  to  sunshine  given — 

Sing,  sing  thro'  the  echoing  hcav'nl 

"  Mine  are  the  wings  of  the  soaring  morn, 
Mine  are  the  fresh  gales  with  day-spring  born: 
Only  young  rapture  can  mount  so  high — 

— Sing,  sing  thro'  the  echoing  sky  1" 

So  those  two  voices  met ;  so  Joy  and  Death 
Mingled  their  accents  ;  and  amidst  the  rush 
Of  many  thoughts,  the  listening  Poet  cried, 
— "Oh!  thou  art  mighty,  thou  art  wonderful 
Mysterious  Nature!  Not  in  thy  free  range 
Of  woods  and  wilds  alone,  thou  blendest  thus 
The  dirge-note  and  the  song  of  festival ; 
But  in  one  heart,  one  changeful  human  heart 
— Ay,  and  within  one  hour  of  that  strange  world— 
Thou  call'st  their  music  forth,  with  all  its  tone* 
To  startle  and  to  pierce  ! — the  dying  Swan's, 
And  the  glad  Sky- Lark's— Triumph  and  Despair1. " 


200 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SONGS   OF    SPAIN.* 


No.  I. 
ANCIENT  BATTLE  SONG. 


fu  no  forth  the  proud  banner  of  Leon  again  ! 
L«t  the  high  word  "  Castile"  go  resounding  thro' 

Spain  ! 

A  ad  tho.i,  tree  Asturias.  encamp'd  on  the  height. 
Pour  down  thy  dark  sons  to  the  vintage  of  fijht! 
Wake.  wak«I  the  old  soil  where  thy  children  re- 
pose. 

Sounds  hollow  and  deep  to  tho  trampling  of  foes. 
The  voices  are  mighty  that  swell  from  the  past, 
With  Arragon's  cry  on  the  shrill  mountain-blast ; 
The  ancient  Sierras  give  strength  to  our  tread, 
Their  pines  in  irinur  song  where  bright  blood  hath 

been  shed. 

—  Fling  forth  the  proud  banner  of  Leon  again. 
And  shout  ye  "  Castile !  to  the  rescue  for  Spain !" 


II. 
THE  ZEGRI  MAID. 


The  Zegns  were  one  of  the  most  illustrious  Moorish 
tribes.  Their  exploits,  and  feuds  with  their  celebrated 
rivals  the  A bence erases,  form  the  subject  of  many  an- 
cient Spanish  romances. 

FHE  summer  leaves  were  sighing, 

Around  the  Zegri  maid. 
To  her  low  sad  song  replying 

As  it  fill'd  the  olive  shade. 

"  Alas  !  for  her  that  lovetti 

Her  land's,  her  kindred's  foel 
Where  a  Christian  Spaniard  roveth, 

Should  a  Zegri 's  spirit  go? 

"From  thy  glance,  my  gentle  mother  I 

I  sink,  with  shame  oppress'd, 
And  the  dark  eye  of  my  brother 

Is  an  arrow  to  my  bieast." 
— Where  summer  leaves  were  sighing. 

Thus  sang  the  Zegri  maid. 
While  the  crimson  day  was  dying 

In  the  whispery  olive  shade. 

"  And  for  all  this  heart's  wealth  wasted, 

This  woe,  in  secret  borne. 
This  flower  of  young  life  blasted. 

Should  I  win  back  aught  but  scorn  1 
By  aught  but  daily  dying 

Would  my  lone'truth  be  repaid?" 
— Where  the  olive  leaves  were  sighing, 

Thus  sang  the  Zegri  maid. 


in. 

THE  RIO  VERDE  SONG. 

The  Rio  Verde,  a  small  river  of  Spain,  is  celebrated 
In  the  old  ballad  romances  of  that  country  for  the  fre- 
quent combats  on  its  banks,  between  Moor  and  Chris- 
tian. The  ballad  referring  to  this  stream,  in  Percjr'i 
Bcliques, 

"Gentle  riier,  gentle  rirer, 

I/O !  thy  streams  ireitain'd  with  gore," 
wiO  be  remembered  by  many  readers. 


FLOW,  Rio  Verde  I 

In  melody  flow ; 
Win  her  that  weepeth 

To  slumber  from   woe : 


•Written  for  a  set  of  un,  entitled  "Peninsular  Melodist," 
elected  by  Colonel  Hodges,  and  published  by  Messrs.  Goulding  and 
IVAIrmine,  who  have  (ermitted  the  reappearance  of  the  words  in 


Bid  thy  wave's  music 
Roll  thnmeh  h   r  dreams, 

Grief  ever  loveth 

The  kind  voice  of  streams. 

Bear  her  lone  spirit 

Afar  on  the  sound, 
Back  to  her  childhood, 

Her  life's  fairy  ground ; 
Pass  like  the  whisper 

Of  love  that  is  gone — 
Flow,  Rio  Verde ! 

Softly  flow  on  ! 

Dark  glassy  water. 

So  crimson'd  of  yore ! 
Love,  death,  and  sorrow 

Know  thy  green  shore. 
Thou  shouMsl  have  echoes 

For  grief's  deepest  tone — 
—Flow,  Rio  Verde, 

Softly  flow  on ! 


IV. 

SEEK  BY  THE  SILVERY  DARRO. 


SKKK  by  the  silvery  Darro, 

Where  jasmine  flowers  have  blown ; 
There  hath  she  left  no  footsteps? 

— Weep,  weep,  the  maid  is  gone 

Seek  where  our  Lady's  image 

Smiles  o'er  the  pine-hung  steep; 
Hear  ye  not  there  her  vespers? 

— Weep  for  the  parted,  weep! 

Seek  in  the  porch  where  vine-leave* 

O'ershade  her  father's  head  ? 
— Are  his  gray  hairs  left  lonely  ? 

Weep!  her  bright  soul  is  fled 


V. 
SPANISH  EVENING  HYMN. 

AVE!  now  let  prayer  and  music 
Meet  in  love  on  earth  and  sea  ! 

Now,  sweet  Mother!  may  the  weary 
Turn  from  this  cold  world  to  thee  I 

From  the  wide  and  restless  waters 

Hear  the  sailor's  hymn  arise! 
From  his  watch-fire  'midst  the  mount  a' ni, 

Lo!  to  thee  the  shepherd  cries! 

Yet,  when  thus  full  hearts  find  voices, 
If  o'erburden'd  souls  there  he. 

Dark  and  silent  in  their  anguish, 
Aid  those  captives !  set  them  free  I 

Touch  them,  every  fount  unsealing. 
Where  the  frozen  tears  lie  deep; 

Thou,  the  Mother  of  all  Sorrows. 
Aid,  oh !  aid  to  pray  and  weep! 


VI. 

BIRD,  THAT  ART  SINGING  ON  EBRD'S  SIDH 


BIRD,  that  art  singing  on  Ebro's  side. 
Where  myrtle  shadows  make  dim  the  tide, 
Doth  sorrow  dwell  'midst  the  leaves  with  thee  7 
Doth  sone  avail  thy  full  heart  to  free? 
—  Bird  of  the  midnight's  purple  sky! 
Teach  me  the  spell  of  thy  melody. 

Bird!  is  it  blighted  affection's  pain. 

Whence  the  sad  sweetness  flows  thro'  thy  strain  f 

And  is  the  wound  of  that  arrow  still'd. 

When  thy  lone  music  the  leaves  have  fill'd? 

— Bird  of  the  midnight's  purple  sky  I 

Teach  me  the  spell  of  thy  melody. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


201 


VII. 
MOORISH  GATHERING  SONG. 

ZORZICO.* 


CHAINS  on  the  cities  !  gloom  in  the  air ! 

— Conif  to  ihc.  hills!  fresh  breezes  are  there. 

Silence  and  fear  in  the  rich  orange  bowers! 

— Come  to  the  rocks  where  freedom  hath  tower*. 

Come  from  th«  Darro !— changed  is  its  tone  ; 
Come  where  the  streams  no  bondage  have  known, 
Wildly  and  proudly  foaming  they  leap. 
Singing  uf  freedom  from  steep  to  steep. 

Come  from  Alhambra  !  garden  and  grove 
Now  may  not  shelter  beauty  or  love. 
Blood  on  the  waters,  death ''midst  the  flowers! 
— Only  the  spear  and  the  rock  are  ours. 


VIII. 
THE  SONG  OF  MINA'S  SOLDIERS 


WE  heard  thy  name,  O  Mina  ! 

Far  through  our  hills  it  rang  ; 
A  sound  more  strong  than  tempest*. 

More  keen  Uia'i  armour's  clang. 
The  peasant  left  his  vintage, 

The  shepherd  grasp'd  the  spear — 
— We  heard  thy  name.  O  Mina! 

The  mountain  hands  are  here. 

As  eagles  to  th"  day-spring, 

As  torrents  to  the  sea, 
From  every  dark  Sierra 

80  rush'd  our  hearts  to  the**. 

Tby  spirit  is  our  banner, 
Thine  eye  our  beacon-sign, 

Tby  name  our  trumpet,  Mina  I 
— The  mountain  bands  are  thine. 


IX.  __ 

MOTHER,  OH !  SING  ME  TO  REST. 

A   CANCION. 


MOTHER  !  oh,  sing  me  to  rest 
As  in  my  bright  days  departed: 
Sing  to  thy  child,  the  sick-hearted, 

Songs  for  a  spirit  oppress'd 

Lay  this  tired  head  on  thy  breast ! 
Flowers  from  the  night-dew  are  closing. 
Pilgrims  and  mourners  reposing — 

— Mother,  oh  !  sing  me  to  rest  1 

Take  back  thy  bird  to  its  ne«t ! 
Weary  is  young  life  when  blighted, 
Heavy  this  love  unrequited  j — 

Mother,  oh !  sing  me  to  rest  I 


X. 

THERE  ARE  SOUNDS  IN  THE  DARK 
RONCESVALLES. 


THERE  are  sounds  in  the  dark  Koncesvalles, 
There  are  echoes  on  Biscay's  wild  shore ; 

There  are  murmurs— but  not  of  the  torrent, 
Wor  the  wind,  nor  the  pine-forest's  roar. 


*  The  Zorico  >l  an  extremely  wild  and  singular  antique  Moorish 
•clody. 


'Tis  a  day  of  the  spear  and  the  banner, 

Of  armings  and  hurried  farewells; 
Rise,  rise  on  your  mountains,  ye  Spaniards! 

Or  start  from  your  old  battle-dells. 

There  are  streams  o(  unconquer'd  Astiirian, 
That  have  roll'd  with  your  fathers'  free  blood; 

Oh!  leave  on  the  graves  of  the  mighty. 
Proud  marks  where  their  children  have  stood! 


THE  CURFEW-SONG  OF  ENGLAND. 


HARK  !  from  the  dim  church-tower, 

The  deep  slow  curfew's  chime! 
— A  heavy  sound  unto  hall  and  bower, 

In  England's  olden  time  ! 
Sadly  'twas  heard  by  him  who  came 

From  the  fluids  of  his  toil  at  night, 
And  who  might  not  see  his  own  hearth-flame 

In  his  children's  eyes  make  light. 

Sternly  and  sadly  heard, 

As  it  quench'd  the  wood-fire's  glow. 
Which  had  cheered  the  board  with  the  mirthful 
word, 

And  the  red  wine's  foaming  flow! 
Until  that  sullen  boding  knell 

Finn?  out  from  every  fane. 
On  harp  and  lip,  and  spirit,  fell, 

With  a  weight  and  with  a  chain. 

Woe  for  the  pilgrim  then. 

In  the  wild  deer's  forest  fart 
No  cottage-lamp,  to  the  haunts  of  men, 

Might  guide  him.  ss  a  star. 
Am'  woe  for  him  whose  wakeful  soul. 

With  lone  aspirings  fiM'd, 
Woiilil  have  lived  o'er  some  immortal  scroll. 

While  the  sounds  of  earth  were  still'd  1 

And  yet  a  deeper  woe 

For  the  watcher  by  the  bed, 
Where  the  fondly  loved  in  pain  lay  low, 

[n  pain  and  sleepless  dread ! 
For  the  mother,  doom'd  unseen  to  keep 

By  the  dying  babe,  her  place, 
And  to  feel  its  flitting  pulse,  and  weep, 

Yet  not  behold  its  face! 

Darkness  in  chieftain's  hall  1 

Darkness  in  peasant's  cot  1 
While  freedom,  under  that  shadowy  pall, 

Sat  mourning  o'er  her  lot. 
Oh  !  the  fireside's  peace  we  well  may  prize  I 

For  blood  hath  flow'd  like  rain, 
Pour'd  forth  to  make  sweet  sanctuaries 

Of  England's  homes  again. 

Heap  the  yule-fagots  high, 

Till  the  "red  light  fills  the  room  I 
It  is  home's  own  hour  when  the  stormy  «ky 

Grows  thick  with  evening-gloom. 
Gather  ye  round  the  holy  hearth, 

And  by  its  gladdening  blaze, 
Unto  thankful  bliss  we  will  change  our  mirth, 

With  a  thought  of  the  olden  days  I 


THE  CALL  TO  BATTLE. 


Ah!  then  and  there  wa»  harrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears,  and  tremblings  of  distress^ 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  ynung  hearts,  and  choking  sight 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated. 


THR  vesper-bell,  from  church  and  tower. 

Had  sent  its  dying  sound  ; 
And  the  household,  in  the  hush  of  eve. 

Where  met,  their  porch  around. 


202 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORK§. 


A  voice  rang  through  the  olive-wood,  with  a  sud- 
den trumpet's  power — 

"We  rise  on  all  our  hills!  come  forth !  'tis  thy 
country's  gathering  hour — 

There's  a  gleam  of  spears  by  every  stream,  in  each 
old  battle-dell— 

Come  forth,  young  Juan !  bid  thy  h«me  a  brief  and 
proud  farewell  I" 

Then  the  father  gave  his  son  the  sworn. 
Which  a  hundred  fights  had  seen — 

"Away!  and  bear  it  back,  my  boy! 
All  that  it  still  bath  been  I 

"  Haste,  haste  I  the  hunters  of  the  foe  are  up,  and 

who  shall  stand 
The  lion-like  awakening  of  the  roused  indignant 

land? 
Our  chase  shall  sound  through  each  defile  where 

swept  the  clarion's  blast, 
With  the  flying  footsteps  of  the  Moor  in  stormy 

ages  past." 

Then  the  mother  kiss'd  her  son,  with  tear* 

That  o'er  his  dark  locks  fell : 
"  I  bless,  I  bless  thee  o'er  and  o'er, 

Yet  I  stay  thee  not— Farewell  I" 

"  One  moment !  but  one  moment  give  to  parting 

thought  or  word  1 
It  is  no  time  for  woman's  tears  when  manhood's 

heart  is  stirr'd. 
Bear  but  the  memory  of  thy  love  about  thee  in  the 

fight, 
To  breathe  upon  th'  avenging  sword  a  spell  of 

keener  might." 

And  a  maiden's  fond  adieu  was  heard, 
Though  deep,  yet  brief  and  low  : 

"  In  the  vigil,  in  the  conflict,  level 
My  prayer  shall  with  thee  go  I" 

••Come  forth  I  come  as  the  torrent  comes  when 

the  winter's  chain  is  burst ! 
Bo  rushes  on  the  land's  revenge,  in  night  and 

silence  nursed — 
The  night  is  past,  the  silence  o'er— on  all  our  hills 

we  rise — 
We  wait  thee,  youth !  sleep,  dream  no  more  I  the 

voice  of  battle  cries." 

There  were  sad  hearts  in  a  darken'd  home, 
When  the  brave  had  left  their  bower; 

But  the  strength  of  prayer  and  sacrifice 
Was  with  them  in  that  bour. 


SONGS  FOR  SUMMER  HOURS  * 


I. 

AND  I  TOO  IN  ARCADIA. 


A  celebrated  picture  of  Poussin  represents  a  band  of 
shepherd  youths  and  maidens  suddenly  checked  in  their 
wanderings,  nnd  affected  with  various  emotions  by  the 
'ight  of  a  tomb  which  bears  this  inscription — "  Et  in 
Ircadia  ego."  

THEY  have  wander'd  in  their  glee 
With  the  butterfly  and  bee; 
They  have  climb'd  o'er  heathery  swells. 
They  have  wound  thro'  forest  dells; 
Mountain  moss  hath  felt  their  tread. 
Woodland  streams  their  way  have  led; 
Flowers,  in  deepest  shadowy  nooks, 
Nurslings  of  the  loneliest  brooks, 
Unto  them  have  yielded  up 
Fragrant  bell  and  starry  cup: 


•  Of  these  songi,  the  ones  entitled  "  Te  are  not  mfo'd,  fair  Flow- 
er?," the  "  Willow  Song,"  "  Leive  me  not  yet,"  »nd  the  "  Orange 
hough,"  are  in  the  possession  of  Mr.  Willis,  by  whom  they  will  D* 
published  with  music. 


Chaplets  are  on  every  brow— 

— What  hath  stay'd  the  wanderers  now  ? 

Lo  !  a  gray  and  rustic  tomb, 

Bower'd  amidst  the  rich  wood-gloom; 

Whence  these  words  their  stricken  spirits  melt, 

— "  I  too,  Shepherds !  in  Arcadia  dwelt." 

There  is  many  a  summer  sound 

That  pale  sepulchre  around  ; 

Thro'  the  shade  young  birds  are  glancing, 

Insect-wings  in  sun-streaks  dancing; 

Glimpses  of  blue  festal  skies 

Pouring  in  when  soft  winds  rise; 

Violets  o'er  the  turf  below 

Shedding  out  their  warmest  glow ; 

Yet  a  spirit  not  its  own 

O'er  the  greenwood  now  is  thrown  I 

Something  of  an  under-note 

Thro'  its  music  seems  to  float, 

Something  of  a  stillness  gray 

Creeps  across  the  laughing  day: 

Something,  dimly  from  those  old  words  felt 

— "  I  too,  Shepherds!  in  Arcadia  dwelt." 

Was  some  gentle  kindred  maid 
In  that  grave  with  dirpes  laid? 
Some  fair  creature,  with  the  tone 
Of  whose  voice  a  joy  is  gone, 
Leaving  melody  and  mirth 
Poorer  on  this  alter'd  earth  ? 
Is  it  thus?  that  so  they  stand. 
Dropping  flowers  from  every  hand  ? 
Flowers,  and  lyres,  and  gather'd  store 
Of  red  wild-fruit  prized  no  more  ? 
— No!  from  that  bright  band  of  morn, 
•  Not  one  link  hath  yet  been  torn ; 
'Tis  the  shadow  of  the  tomb 
Falling  o'er  the  summer-bloom, 
O'er  the  flush  of  love  and  life 
Passing  with  a  sudden  strife ; 
Tis  the  low  prophetic  breath 
Murmuring  from  that  house  of  death, 
Whose  faint  whisper  thus  their  hearts  can  melt, 
"  I  too.  Shepherds!  in  Arcadia  dwelt." 


II. 
THE  WANDERING  WIND 


THE  Wind,  the  wandering  Wind 

Of  the  golden  summer  eves—- 
Whence is  the  thrilling  magic 

Of  its  tones  amongst  the  leaves? 
Oh!  is  it  from  the  waters, 

Or  from  the  long,  tall  grass  ? 
Or  is  it  from  the  hollow  rocks 

Thro'  which  its  breathings  pass  ? 

Or  is  it  from  the  voices 

Of  all  in  one  combined, 
That  it  wins  the  tone  of  mastery  ? 

The  Wind,  the  wandering  Wind  I 
No,  no!  the  strange  sweet  accents 

That  with  it  come  and  go. 
They  are  not  from  the  osiers, 

Nor  the  fir-trees  whispering  low. 

They  are  not  of  the  waters, 

Nor  of  the  cavern'd  hill : 
'Tis  the  human  love  within  us 

That  gives  them  power  to  thrilL 
They  touch  the  links  of  memory 

Around  our  spirits  twined, 
And  we  start,  and  weep,  and  tremble. 

To  the  Wind,  the  wandering  Wind  I 


IIL 

YE  ARE  NOT  MISS'D,  FAIR  FLOWERS 


Y«  are  not  miss'd,  fair  flowers,  that  late  wer« 
spreading 

The  summer's  glow  by  fount  and  breezy  erot ; 
There  falls  the  dew,  its  fairy  favours  shedding. 

The  leaves  dance  on,  the  young  birds  miss  you  not. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


203 


Still  play«  the  sparkle  o'er  the  rippling  water. 

O  lily  I  whence  thy  cup  of  pearl  is  pone; 
The  bright  wave  mourns  not  for  its  loveliest  daugh- 
ter, 

There  is  no  sorrow  in  the  wind's  low  tone. 

And  thou,  meek  hyacinth!  afar  is  roving 
The  bee  that  oft  thy  trembling  bells  hath  kiss'd ; 

Cradled  ye  were,  fair  flowers  I  'midst  all  thing* 

loving, 
A  joy  to  all— yet,  yet,  ye  are  not  miss'd! 

Ye,  that  were  born  to  lend  the  sunbeam  gladness, 
And  the  winds  fragrance,  wandering  where  they 

list! 

— Oh!  it  were  breathing  words  too  deep  in  sadness, 
To  say— earth's  human  flowers  not  more  are 
miss'd. 


IV. 

WILLOW-SONG. 


WILIOW!  in  thy  breezy  moan, 

I  can  hear  a  deeper  tone; 

Thro'  thy  leaves  come  whispering  low 

Faint  sweet  sounds  of  long  ago. 

Willow,  sighing  Willow! 

Many  a  mournful  tale  of  old 
Heart-sick  love  to  thee  hath  told, 
Gathering  from  thy  golden  boi  gh 
Leaves  to  cool  his  burning  brow. 

Willow  sighing  Willow' 

Many  a  swan-like  song  to  thee 
Hath  been  sung,  thou  gentle  tree! 
Many  a  lute  its  last  lament 
Down  thy  moonlight  stream  hath  sent: 
Willow,  sighing  Willow! 

Therefore,  wave  and  murmur  on  I 
Sigh  for  sweet  affections  gone, 
And  for  tuneful  voices  fled, 
And  for  love,  whose  heart  hath  bled, 
Ever,  Willow,  Willow! 


V. 
LEAVE  ME  NOT  YET! 


Leave  me  not  yet — through  rosy  skies  from  far, 
But  now  the  song-birds  to  their  nests  return  ; 

The  quivering  image  of  the  first  pale  star 
On  the  dim  lake  scarce  yet  begins  to  burn  : 

Leave  me  not  yet ! 

Not  yet  I — oh  hark !  low  tones  from  hidden  streams, 
Piercing  the  shivery  leaves,  ev'n  now  arise  ; 

Their  voices  mingle  not  with  daylight  dreams. 
They  are  of  vesper's  hymns  and  harmonies  : 
Leave  me  not  yet! 

My  thoughts  are  like  those  gentle  sounds,  dear 

love! 

By  day  shut  up  in  their  own  still  recess. 
They  wait  for  dews  on  earth,  for  stars  above, 
Then  to  breathe  out  their  soul  of  tei,  lerness: 

Leave  r.te  not  yet . 


VL 
THE  ORANGE-BOUGH. 


OH  I  bring  me  one  sweet  Orange-bough, 
To  fan  my  cheek,  to  cool  my  brow ; 
One  bough,  with  pearly  blossoms  drest, 
And  bind  it,  Mother !  on  my  breast  I 


Go,  seek  the  grove  along  the  shore. 
Whose  odours  \  must  breathe  no  more  ; 
The  grove  where  every  scented  tree 
Thrills  to  the  deep  voice  of  the  sea. 

Oh  !  Love's  fond  sighs,  and  fervent  prayer, 
And  wild  farewell,  are  lingering  there ; 
Each  leaps  light  whisper  hath  a  tone, 
My  faint  heart,  ev'n  in  death,  would  own. 

Then  bear  me  thence  one  bough,  to  shed 
Life's  parting  sweetness  round  my  head, 
And  bind  it,  Mother !  on  my  breast, 
When  I  am  laid  in  lonely  rest. 


vn. 

THE   STREAM  SET  FREE, 


Ftow  on,  rejoice,  make  music, 

Bright  living  stream  set  free ! 
The  troubled  haunts  of  care  and  strife 

Were  not  for  thee  ! 

The  woodland  is  thy  country, 

Thou  art  all  its  own  again  ; 
The  wild  birds  are  thy  kindred  race, 

That  fear  no  chain. 

Flow  on,  rejoice,  make  music 

Unto  the  glistening  leaves! 
Thou,  the  beloved  of  balmy  winds 

And  golden  eves. 

Once  more  the  holy  starlight 

Sleeps  calm  upon  thy  breast, 
Whose  brightness  bears  no  token  more 

Of  man's  unrest. 

Flow,  and  let  free-born  music 

Flow  with  thy  wavy  line. 
While  the  stock-dove's  lingering  loving  voice 

Comes  blent  with  thine. 

And  the  green  reeds  quivering  o'er  thee, 

Strings  of  the  forest-lyre, 
All  ftll'd  with  answering  spirit-sounds, 

In  joy  respire. 

Yet  'midst  thy  song's  glad  changes, 

Oh  I  keep  one  pitying  tone 
For  gentle  hearts,  that  bear  to  thee 

Their  sadness  lone. 

One  sound,  of  all  the  deepest, 

To  bring,  like  healing  dew, 
A  sense  that  nature  ne'er  forsake* 

The  meek  and  true. 

Then,  then,  rejoice,  make  music, 
Thou  stream,  thou  glad  and  free  I 

The  shadows  of  all  glorious  flowers 
Be  set  in  thee. 


VIIL 
THE  SUMMER'S  CALL. 


COMB  away!  the  sunny  hours 
Woo  thee  far  to  founts  and  bowers  I 
O'er  the  very  waters  now, 
In  their  play, 

Flowers  are  shedding  beauty's  glow- 
Come  away  1 

Where  the  lily's  tender  gleam 
Quivers  on  the  glancing  stream- 
Come  away  I 


204 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


All  the  air  is  lill'd  with  sound, 
Soft,  and  sultry,  and  profound  ; 
Murmurs  through  the  shadowy  grass 

Lightly  stray ; 
Faint  winds  whisper  as  they  pass — 

Come  away ! 

Where  the  bee's  deep  music  swells 
From  the  trembling  fox-glove  bells- 
Come  awayl 

In  the  skies  the  sapphire  blue 
Now  hath  won  its  richest  hue ; 
In  the  woods  the  breath  of  song 

Night  and  day 
Floats  with  leafy  scents  along — 

Come  away ! 

Where  the  houghs  with  dewy  gloom 
Darken  each  thick  bed  of  bloom — 

Come  away  I 

In  the  deep  heart  of  the  rose 
Now  the  crimson  love-hue  glows; 
Now  the  glow-worm's  lamp  by  night 

Sheds  a  ray, 
Dreamy,  starry,  greenly  bright — 

Come  awayl 

Where  the  fairy  cup-moss  lies, 
.With  the  wild-wood  strawberries, 

Come  away  t 

Now  each  tree  by  summer  crown'd 
Sheds  its  own  rich  twilight  round; 
Glancing  there  from  sun  to  shade, 

Bright  wings  play  ; 
There  the  deer  its  couch  hath  made- 
Come  away! 

Where  the  smooth  leaves  of  the  lime 
Glisten  in  their  honey-time — 

Come  away— away? 


GENIUS  SINGING  TO  LOVE. 


That  voice  re-measure* 
Whatever  tones  and  melancholy  pleaiures 
The  things  of  nature  utter ;  birdi  or  trees. 
Or  where  the  tall  grass  'mid  the  heath-plant  waves, 
Murmur  and  music  thin  of  sudden  breeie. 

CoUridft, 

I  BEARD  a  song  upon  the  wandering  wind, 
A  song  of  many  tones— though  one  full  soul 
Breathed  through  them  all  imploringly ;  and  made 
All  nature  as  they  pass'd,  all  quivering  leaves 
And  low  responsive  reeds  and  waters  thrill, 
As  with  the  consciousness  of  human  prayer. 
—At  times  the  passion-kindled  melody 
Might  seem  to  gush  from  Sappho's  fervent  heart, 
Over  the  wild  sea-wave; — at  times  the  strain 
Flow'd  with  more  plaintive  sweetness,  as  if  born 
Of  Petrarch's  voice,  beside  the  lone  Vaucluse; 
And  sometimes,  with  its  melancholy  swell, 
A  graver  sound  was  mingled,  a  deep  note 
Of  Tasso's  holy  lyre  ;— yet  still  the  tones 
Were  of  a  suppliant ; — "  Leave  me  not .'"  was  still 
The  burden  of  their  music;  and  I  knew 
The  lay  which  Genius,  in  its  loneliness, 
ts  own  still  world  amidst  th'  o'erpeopled  world, 
Hath  ever  breathed  to  Love. 

They  crown  me  with  the  glistening  crown, 

Borne  from  a  deathless  tree ; 
I  hear  the  pealing  music  of  renown— 
O  Love  I  forsake  me  not ! 
Mine  were  a  loi    dark  lot, 
Bereft  of  the 

They  tell  me  thin  my  soul  can  throw 

A  glory  o'er  the  earth  ; 

From  thee,  from  thee,  is  caught  that  golden  glow  I 
Shed  by  thy  gentle  eyes 
It  gives  to  flower  and  skies, 
A  brip*«  new  birth  1 


Thence  gleams  the  path  of  morning, 
Over  the  kindling  hills,  a  sunny  zone  ! 
Thence  to  its  heart  of  hearts,  the  rose  is  burning 
With  lustre  not  its  own  1 
Thence  every  wood -recess 
Is  till'cl  with  loveliness, 
Each  bower,  to  ring-doves  and  dim  violets  known 

1  see  all  beauty  by  the  ray 
That  streameth  from  thy  smile ; 
Oh !  bear  it,  bear  it  not  away  ! 

Can  that  sweet  light  beguile? 
Too  pure,  too  spirit-like,  it  seems, 
To  linger  long  by  earthly  streams ; 
I   clasp  it  with  th'  alloy 
Of  fear  'midst  quivering  joy, 
Yet  must  I  perish  if  the  gift  depart — 
Leave  me  not,  Lovel  to  mine  own  beat>*ig  heart 

The  music  from  my  lyre 
With  thy  swift  step  would  flee ; 
The  world's  cold  breath  would  quench  the  starry 

fire 

In  my  deep  soul — a  temple  fill'd  with  thee  I 
Seal'd  would  the  fountains  lie, 
The  waves  of  harmony, 
Which  thou  alone  canst  free  1 

Like  a  shrine  'midst  rocks  forsaken, 

Whence  the  oracle  hath  fled  ; 
Like  a  harp  which  none  might  waken 

But  a  mighty  master  dead  ; 
Like  the  vase  of  a  perfume  scatter'.!, 

Such  would  my  spirit  be  ; 
So  mute,  so  void,  so  shatter'd. 

Bereft  of  thee! 

Leave  me  not,  Love  1  or  if  this  earth 

Yield  not  for  thee  a  home, 
[f  the  bright  summer-land  of  thy  pure  birth 

Send  thee  asilvery  voice  that  whispers— •'  Comif 
Then,  with  the  glory  from  the  rose, 

With  the  sparkle  from  the  stream. 

With  the  light  thy  rainbow-presence  throws 
Over  the  poet's  dream  ; 
With  all  th'  Elysian  hues 
Thy  pathway  that  suffuse, 
With  joy,  with  music,  from  the  fading  grove. 
Take  me,  too,  heavenward,  on  thy  wing,  sweet 
Love ! 


XI. 

OH!  SKY-LARK  FOR  THY  WING. 


OH  !  Sky-lark,  for  thy  wing! 
Thou  bird  of  joy  and  light. 
That  I  might  soar  and  sing 
At  heaven's  empyreal  height ! 
With  the  heathery  hills  beneath  me. 

Whence  the  streams  in  glory  spring. 
And  the  pearly  clouds  to  wreathe  me 
Oh  sky-lark  I  on  thy  wing! 

Free,  free  from  earth-born  fear, 

I  would  range  the  blessed  skies, 
Through  the  blue  divinely  clear, 
Where  the  low  mists  cannot  rise ! 
And  a  thousand  joyous  measures 

From  mychainless  heart  should  spring, 
Like  the  bright  rain's  vernal  treasures, 
As  I  wander'd  on  thy  wing. 

But  oh!  the  silver  chords, 

That  around  the  heart  are  spun, 
From  gentle  tones  and  words, 
And  kind  eyes  that  make  our  sun  I 
To  some  low  sweet  nest  returning, 
How  soon  my  love  would  bring. 
There,  there  the  dews  of  morning, 
Oh,  sky-lark !  on  thy  wing  * 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS, 


205 


MUSIC  AT  A  DEATH-BED. 


nplojr 


"  Music !  why  thy  power  e 
Only  for  the  sons  of  joy? 
Only  for  the  smiling  guests 
At  natal,  oral  nuptial  feasts? 
Rather  thy  lenient  numbers  pour 
On  those  whom  secret  griefs  devour  j 
And  with  some  softly-whisper'd  air 
Smooth  the  brow  of  dumb  despair !" 

Worfoii,  from  Eurijtida. 


BRINO  music!  stir  the  brooding  air 

With  an  ethereal  breath! 
Bring  sounds  my  struts.'''''?  soul  to  bear 

Up  from  the  couch  of  death  ! 

A  voice,  a  flute,  a  dreamy  lay, 

Such  as  the  southern  breeze 
Might  waft,  at  golden  fall  of  day, 

O'er  blue  transparent  seas ! 

Oh  no!  not  such!  that  lingering  spel. 

Would  lure  me  back  to  life, 
When  my  vvean'd  heart  hath  said  farewell, 

And  pass'd  the  gates  of  strife. 

Let  not  a  sight  of  human  love 

Blend  with  the  song  its  tone  ! 
Let  no  disturbing  echo  move 

One  that  must  die  alone  ! 

But  pour  a  solemn-breathing  strain 

Fill'd  with  the  soul  of  prayer; 
Let  a  life's  conflict,  fear,  and  pain. 

And  trembling  hope  be  there. 

Deeper,  yet  deeper  I  in  my  thought 

Lies  more  prevailing  sound, 
A  harmony  intensely  fraught 

With  pleading  mire  profound. 

A  passion  unto  music  given, 

A  sweet,  yet  piercing  cry  : 
A  breaking  heart's  appeal  to  heaven, 

A  bright  faith's  victory  1 

Deeper !  Oh  !  may  no  richer  power 

Be  in  those  notes  enshrined  1 
Can  all  which  crowds  on  earth's  last  hour 

No  fuller  language  find? 

Away !  and  hush  the  feeble  song, 

And  let  the  chord  be  still'd  1 
Par  in  another  land  ere  long 

My  dream  shall  be  fuliiird. 


WHERE  IS  THE  SEA? 

SON'G   OF  THE  GREEK   ISLANDER   IN  EXILE. 


A  Greek  Islander,  beins  taken  to  the  Vale  of  Tempe, 
and  called  upon  to  admire  its  beauty,  only  replied—"  The 
tea— where  is  it  1 

WHERE  is  the  sea  ?— I  languish  here — 

Where  is  my  own  blue  sea  ? 
With  all  its  barks  in  fleet  career, 

And  flags,  and  breezes  free. 

I  miss  that  voice  of  waves,  which  first 
Awoke  my  childhood's  glee ; 

The  measured  chime— the  thundering  burst- 
Where  is  my  own  blue  sea  7 

Oh !  rich  your  myrtle's  breath  may  rise, 

Soft,  soft  your  winds  may  be; 
Yet  my  sick  heart  within  me  dies— 

Where  is  my  own  blue  sea  ? 

I  hear  the  shepherd's  mountain  flute— 

I  hear  the  whispering  tree; 
The  echoes  of  my  soul  are  mute  : 

— Where  is  my  own  blue  sea? 


MARSHAL  SCHWERIN'S  GRAVE. 


"  I  came  upon  the  tomb  of  Marshal  Schwerin — a  plain 
quiet  cenotaph,  erected  in  the  middle  of  a  wide  corn- 
field, on  the  very  spot  where  he  closed  a  long,  faithful, 
and  glorious  career  in  arms.  He  fell  here  at  eighty 
years  of  age,  at  the  head  of  his  own  regiment,  the  stand- 
ard of  it  waving  in  his  hand.  His  seat  was  in  the 
leathern  saddle — his  foot  in  the  iron  stirrup — his  fingers 
reined  the  young  war-horse  to  the  last." — Nates  and 
Reflections  during  a  Ramble  in  Germany. 


THOD  didst  fall  in  the  field  with  thy  silver  hair, 

And  a  banner  in  thy  hand  ; 
Thou  wert  laid  to  rest  from  thy  battles  there, 

By  a  proudly  mournful  band. 

In  the  camp,  on  the  steed,  to  the  bugle's  blast, 

Thy  long  bright  years  had  sped  ; 
And  a  warrior's  bier  was  thine  at  last. 

When  the  snows  had  crown'd  thy  head. 

Many  had  fallen  by  thy  side,  old  chief! 

Hrothers  and  friends,  perchance  ; 
But  thou  wert  yet  as  the  fadeless  leaf, 

And  light  was  in  thy  glance. 

The  soldier's  heart  at  thy  step  leap'd  high, 
And  thy  voice  the  war-horse  knew  ; 

And  the  first  to  arm,  when  the  foe  was  nigh, 
Wert  thou,  the  bold  and  true. 

Now  mayest  thou  slumber — thy  work  is  done— 

Thou  of  the  well-worn  sword  ! 
From  the  stormy  fight  in  thy  fame  thou'rt  gone. 

But  not  to  the  festal  board. 

The  corn-sheaves  whisper  thy  grave  around, 

Where  fiery  blood  hath  flow'd  : — 
Oh  !  lover  of  battle  and  trumpet-soundl 

Thou  art  couch'd  in  a  still  abode! 

A  quiet  home  from  the  noonday's  glare, 
And  the  breath  of  the  wintry  blast — 

Didst  thou  toil  thro'  the  days  of  thy  silvery  hair, 
To  win  thee  but  this  at  last  ? 


SONGS  OF  CAPTIVITY. 


These  songs  (with  the  exception  of  the  fifth)  have  all 
been  set  to  music  by  the  author's  sister,  and  are  in  tha 
possession  of  Mr.  Willis,  by  whose  permission  they  are 
flere  published. 


INTRODUCTION. 

ONE  hour  for  distant  homes  to  weep 
'Midst  Afric's  burning  sands. 

One  silent  sunset  hour  was  given 
To  the  slaves  of  many  lands. 

They  sat  beneath  a  lonely  palm. 
In  the  gardens  of  their  lord; 

And  mingling  with  the  fountain's  tune. 
Their  songs  of  exile  pour'd. 

And  strangely,  sadly,  did  those  lay» 

Of  Alp  and  Ocean  sound, 
With  Afric's  wild  red  skies  above, 

And  solemn  wastes  around. 

Broken  with  tears  were  oft  their  tones, 
And  most  when  most  they  tried 

To  breathe  of  hope  and  liberty, 
From  hearts  that  inly  died. 

So  met  the  sons  of  many  lands. 
Parted  by  mount  and  main ; 

80  did  they  sing  in  brotherhood. 
Made  kindred  by  the  chain. 


206 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I. 
THE  BROTHER'S  DIRGE. 


IH  he  proud  old  fanes  of  England 

My  warrior  fathers  lie, 
Banners  hang  drooping  o'er  their  dust 
With  gorgeous  blazonry. 
But  thriii,  but  tfwu.  my  brother  ! 
O'er  thee  dark  billows  sweep, 
The  best  and  bravest  heart  of  all 
Is  shrouded  by  the  deep. 

In  the  old  hi«h  wars  of  England 

My  noble  fathers  bled  ; 
For  her  lion  kings  of  lance  and  spear, 
They  went  down  to  the  dead. 
But  thou,  but  thou,  my  brother! 
Thy  life-drops  flow'd  for  me — 
Would  I  were  with  thee  in  thy  rest, 
Young  sleeper  of  the  sea. 

In  a  shelter'd  home  of  England 

Our  sister  dwells  alone, 
With  quick  heart  listening  for  the  sound 
Of  footsteps  that  are  gone. 
She  little  dreams,  my  brother  t 

Of  the  wild  fate  we  have  found 
I,  'midst  the  Afric  sands  a  slave, 
Thou,  by  the  dark  seag  bound. 


n. 

THE  ALPINE   HORN. 


THI  Alpine  horn!  the  Alpine  horn  I 
Oh  I  through  my  native  sky. 

Might  I  but  hear  its  deep  notes  borne. 
Once  more, — but  once, — and  die  I 

Yet,  no!  'midst  breezy  hills  thy  breath, 

So  full  of  hope  and  morn. 
Would  win  me  from  the  bed  of  death — 

O  joyous  Alpine  horn  1 

But  here  the  echo  of  that  blast, 

To  many  a  battle  known, 
Seems  mournfully  to  wander  past, 

A  wild,  shrill,  wailing  tone! 

Haunt  me  no  more  !  for  slavery's  air 
Thy  proud  notes  were  not  born ; 

The  dream  but  deepens  my  despair- 
Be  hush'd,  thou  Alpine  horn  I 


m. 

O  YE  VOICES. 


O  T«  voices  round  my  own  hearth  singing1 
A«  the  winds  of  May  to  memory  sweet, 

Might  I  >  jt  return,  a  worn  heart  bringing, 
Wo&ld  tnose  vernaj  tones  the  Wanderer  jreef. 
Once  again  ? 

Never,  never!  Spring  hath  smiled  and  parted 
Oft  since  vhen  your  /bnd  farewell  was  said ; 

O'er  the  greet,  tun*  01*  the  gentle-hearted, 
Summer's  hand  twe  lose  leaves  may  nave  sited, 
Oft  again. 

Or  if  still  around  my  heart  ye  linger. 

Yet,  sweet  voices !  there  must  change  have  como , 
Years  have  quell'd  the  free  soul  of  the  singer, 

Vernal  tones  shall  greet  the  Wanderer  home, 
Ne'er  again  I 


rv. 

I  DREAM  OF  ALL  THINGS  FREE. 


I  DREAM  of  all  things  free  1 

Of  a  gallant,  gallant  bark. 
That  sweeps  through  storm  and  sea, 

Like  an  arrow  to  its  mark  I 
Of  a  stag  that  o'er  the  hills 

Goes  bounding  in  his  glee  ; 
Of  a  thousand  flashing  rills — 

Of  all  things  glad  and  free! 

I  dream  of  some  proud  bird, 

A  bright-eyed  mountain  king  I 
In  my  visions  I  have  heard 

The  rushing  of  his  wing. 
I  follow  some  wild  river. 

On  whose  breast  no  sail  may  be , 
Dark  woods  around  it  shiver — 

— I  dream  of  all  things  free  1 

Of  a  happy  forest  child, 

With  the  fawns  and  flowers  at  play; 
Of  an  Indian  'midst  the  wild, 

With  the  stars  to  guide  his  way: 
Of  a  chief  his  warriors  leading, 

Of  an  archer's  greenwood  tree  :— 
—My  heart  in  chains  is  bleeding, 

And  I  dream  of  all  things  free! 


V. 
FAR  O'ER  THE  SEA. 


WHERE  are  the  vintage  song* 

Wandering  in  glee? 
Where  dance  the  peasant  band* 

Joyous  and  free  1 
Under  a  kind  blue  sky, 
Where  doth  my  birth-place  lie? 

— Far  o'er  the  sea  ! 

Where  floats  the  myrtle-scent 

O'er  vale  and  \ca, 
When  evening  calls  the  dove 

Homewards  to  flee  ? 
Where  doth  the  orange  gleam 
Soft  on  my  native  stream  1 

— Far  o'er  the  sea ! 

Where  are  sweet  eyes  of  love 

Watching  for  me? 
Where  o'er  the  cabin  roof 

Waves  the  green  tree  ? 
Where  speaks  the  vesper-chime 
Still  of  a  holy  time? 

— Far  o'er  the  seal 

Dance  on,  ye  vintage  bands, 
Fearless  and  free  1  • 

Still  fresh  and  greenly  wave, 
My  father's  tree! 

Still  smile,  ye  kind  blue  skies  ! 

Though  your  son  pines  and  die* 
Far  o'er  the  sea ! 


VI. 

THE  INVOCATION. 

OH!  art  thou  still  on  earth,  my  love 7 

My  only  love! 
Or  smiling  in  a  brighter  home. 

Far,  far  above  ? 

Oh!  is  thy  sweet  voice  fled,  my  lovef 
Thy  light  step  gone? 

And  art  thou  not,  in  Earth  or  Heaven, 
Still,  still  my  own? 

I  see  thee  with  thy  gleaming  hair, 
In  midnight  dream*! 

But  cold,  and  clear,  and  spirit-like, 
Thy  soft  eve  seems. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


20? 


Peace  in  thy  saddest  hour,  my  love  I 
Dwelt  on  thy  brow  ; 

But  something  mournfully  divine 
There  shineth  now  I 

And  silent  ever  is  thy  lip, 

And  pale  thy  cheek ; — 
Obi  art  thou  Earth's,  or  art  thou  Heaven'*  1 

Speak  to  me,  speak  ! 


VII. 
THE  SONG  OF  HOPE. 


DROOP  not,  my  brothers  1  I  hear  a  glad  strain — 
We  shall  burst  forth  like  streams  from  the  winter- 
night's  chain ; 

A  flag  is  unfurl'd,  a  bright  star  of  the  sea, 
A  ransom  approaches — we  yet  shall  be  free  t 

Where  the  pines  wave,  where  the  light  chamois 

leaps, 

Where  the  lone  eagle  hath  built  on  the  steeps. 
Where  the  snows  glisten,  the  mountain  rills  foam 
Free  as  the  falcon's  wing,  yet  shall  we  roam. 

Where  the  hearth  shines,  where  the  kind  looks 

are  met. 

Where  the  smiles  mingle,  our  place  shall  be  yet  I 
Crossing  the  desert,  o'ersweeping  the  sea, — 
Droop  not,  my  brothers  1  we  yet  shall  be  free  I 


THE  BIRD  AT  SEA, 


BIRD  of  the  greenwood! 

Oh  !  why  art  thou  here  I 
Leaves  dance  not  o'er  thee, 

Floweri  bloom  not  near. 

All  the  sweet  waters 
Far  hence  are  at  piay— 

Bird  of  the  greenwood! 
Away,  away ! 

Where  the  mas-t  quivers 
Thy  peace  will  not  be. 

As  'midst  the  waving 
Of  wild  rose  and  tree. 

How  should'st  thou  battle 
With  storm  and  with  spray? 

Bird  of  the  greenwood! 
Away,  away  I 

Or  art  thou  seeking 

Some  brighter  land, 
Where  by  the  south-wind 

Vine  leaves  are  fann'd  1 

•Midst  the  wild  billows 

Why  then  delay? 
Bird  of  the  greenwood! 

Away,  away! 

44  Chide  not  my  lingering 
Where  storms  are  dark  , 

A  hand  that  hath  nursed  me 
Is  in  the  bark; 

A  heart  that  hath  cherish'd 
Through  winter's  long  day, 

So  I  turn  from  the  greenwood. 
Away,  away!" 


THE  IVY-SONG. 


Written  on  receiving  some  Ivy-leaves,  gathered  from 
«he  ruined  Castle  of  Rheinfels  on  the  Rhine. 


OB  !  how  cnuld  fancy  crown  with  thti, 
In  ancient  days,  the  God  of  Wine, 

Anil  hiii  thee  at  the  banquet  be 
Companion  of  the  vine? 


Ivy  !  thy  home  is  where  each  sound 

Of  revelry  hath  long  been  o'er, 
Where  song  and  beaker  once  went  round. 
But  now  are  known  no  more. 

Where  long-fallen  gods  recline, 
There  the  place  is  thine. 

The  Roman  on  his  battle-plains, 

Where  Kitigs  before  his  eaglen  bent, 
With  thee,  amidst  exulting  strains, 

Shadow'd  the  victor's  tent  : 
Though  shining  there  in  deathless  green, 

Triumphally  thy  boughs  might  wave, 
Better  thou  lov'st  the  silent  scene 

Around  the  victor's  grave. 

Urn  and  sculpture  half  divine 
Yield  their  place  to  thine. 

The  cold  halls  of  the  regal  dead, 

Where  lone  th'  Italian  sunbeams  dwell, 
Where  hollow  sounds  the  lightest  tread  — 

Ivy!  they  know  thee  well! 
And  far  above  the  festal  vine, 

Thou  wav'st  where  once  proud  banners  hung 
Where  mouldering  turrets  crest  the  Rhine 

—  The  Rhine,  still  fresh  and  young! 
Tower  and  rampart  o'er  the  Rhine 
—Ivy!  all  are  thine! 


rom  the  fields  of  air  look  down 
Those  eyries  of  a  vanish'd  race, 
Where  harp,  and  battle,  and  renown, 

Have  pass'd,  and  left  no  trace. 
But  thou  art  there!—  serenely  bright, 

Meeting  the  mountain  storms  with  bloom, 
Thou  that  wilt  climb  the  loftiest  height, 
Of  crown  the  lowliest  tomb  1 
Ivy,  Ivy  !  all  are  thine, 
Palace,'  hearth,  and  shrine. 

'Tis  still  the  same  ;  our  pilgrim  tread 
O'er  classic  plains,  through  deserts  free, 

On  the  mute  path  of  ages  fled, 
Still  meets  decay  and  thee. 

And  still  let  man  his  fabrics  rear, 

August  in  beauty,  stern  in  power; 
—  Days  pass  —  thou  Ivy  never  sere!* 
And  thou  shall  have  thy  dower. 

All  are  thine,  or  must  be  thine  — 
—  Temple,  pillar,  shrine1 


THE  DYING  GIRL  AND  FLOWERS. 


"  I  desire  as  I  look  on  these,  the  ornaments  and  children 
of  Earth,  to  know  whether,  indeed,  such  things  I  shall 
lee  no  iiKire?— whether  they  have  nn  likeness,  no  arche- 
type in  the  world  in  which  my  future  home  is  to  be  cast! 
or  whether  they  have  their  images  above,  only  wrought 
in  a  more  wondrous  and  delightful  mould." Conver- 
sations with  an  Ambitious  Student  in  ill  health. 


BEAR  them  not  from  grassy  dells, 
Where  wild  bees  have  honey-cells; 
Not  from  where  sweet  water-sounds 
Thrill  the  greenwood  to  its  bounds; 
Not  to  waste  their  scented  breath 
On  the  silent  room  of  Death  I 

Kindred  to  the  breeze  they  are, 
And  the  glow-worm's  emerald  star, 
And  the  bird,  whose  song  is  free, 
And  the  many-whispering  tree  : 
Oh  !  too  deep  a  love,  and  vain, 
They  would  win  to  earth  again. 

Spread  them  not  before  the  eyes, 
Closing  fast  on  summer  skies ! 

•Ye  Myrtla  brown,  »ud  Ivy  never  iere.— Lyctjm. 


208 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Woo  thou  not  the  spirit  back, 
Prom  its  lone  and  viewless  track. 
With  the  bright  things  which  have  birth 
Wide  o'er  allthe  colour'd  earth  1 

With  the  violet's  breath  would  rise 
Thoughts  too  sad  for  her  who  dies; 
From  the  lily's  pearl-cup  shed. 
Dreams  too  sweet  would  haunt  her  bed ; 
Dreams  of  youth— of  spring-time  eves- 
Music— beauty— all  she  leaves ! 

Hush  I  'tis  thou  that  dreaming  art, 
Calmer  is  her  gentle  heart. 
Yes  !  o'er  fountain,  vale,  and  grove, 
Leaf  and  flower,  hath  gush'd  her  love; 
But  that  passion,  deep  and  true. 
Knows  not  of  a  last  adieu. 

Types  of  lovelier  forms  than  these, 
In  their  fragile  mould  she  sees ; 
Shadows  of  yet  richer  things, 
Born  beside  immortal  springs, 
Into  fuller  glory  wrought, 
Kindled  by  surpassing  thought  1 

Therefore,  in  the  lily's  leaf, 
She  can  read  no  word  of  grief; 
O'er  the  woodbine  she  can  dwell. 
Murmuring  not— Farewell!  farewell 
And  her  dim,  yet  speaking  eye, 
Greets  the  violet  solemnly. 

Therefore,  once,  and  yet  again, 
Strew  them  o'er  her  bed  of  pain  ; 
From  her  chamber  take  the  gloom, 
With  a  light  and  flush  of  bloom  : 
So  should  one  depart,  who  goes 
Where  no  Death  c,in  touch  the  rose  1 


THE  MUSIC  OF  ST.  PATRICK'S. 

The  choral  music  of  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral,  Dublin, 
b  almost  unrivalled  in  its  combined  powers  of  voice, 
organ,  and  scientific  skill.— The  majestic  harmony  of 
effect  thus  produced  is  not  a  little  deepened  by  the  cha- 
racter of  the  Church  itself;  which,  though  small,  yet 
with  its  dark  rich  fretwork,  knightly  helmets  and  ban- 
ners, and  old  monumental  effigies,  seems  all  filled  and 
overshadowed  by  the  spirit  of  chivalrous  antiquity .  The 
imagination  never  fails  to  recognize  it  as  a  fitting  scene 
for  high  solemnities  of  old ; — a  place  to  witness  the  soli 
tary  vigil  of  arms,  or  to  resound  with  the  funeral  march 
•t  the  burial  of  some  warlike  King. 

All  the  choir 
Sang  Hallelujah,  as  the  sound  of  teal. 


AOAIN,  oh!  send  that  anthem  peal  again 
Thro'  the  arch'd  roof  in  triumph  to  the  sky! 
Bid  the  old  tombs  ring  proudly  to  the  strain, 
The  banners  thrill  as  if  with  victory  I 

Such  sounds  the  warrior  awe-struck  might  have 

heard. 

While  arm'd  for  fields  of  chivalrous  renown ; 
Such  the  high  hearts  of  Kings  might  well  have 

stirr'd. 
While  throbbing  still  beneath  the  recent  crown. 

Those  notes  once  more !— they  bear  my  soul  away 
They  lend  the  wings  of  morning  to  its  flight ; 
No  earthly  passion  in  th'  exulting  lay, 
Whispers  one  tone  to  win  me  from  that  height. 

All  is  of  Heaven  !— Yet  wherefore  to  mine  eye 
Gush  the  vaiu  tears  unbidden  from  their  source? 
Ev'n  while  the  waves  of  that  strong  harmony 
Roll  with  my  spirit  on  their  sounding  course  1 


Wherefore  must  rapture  its  full  heart  reveal 
Thus  by  the  burst  of  sorrow's  token-shower  ? 
—Oh!  is  it  not,  that  humbly  we  may  feel 
Our  nature's  limit  in  its  proudest  hour? 


KEENE,  OR  LAMENT  OF  AN  IRISH  MO- 
THER  OVER  HER  SON. 

This  lament  is  intended  to  imitate  the  peculiar  style  of 
the  Irish  Keenes,  many  uf  which  are  distinguished  by  • 
wild  and  deep  pathos,  and  other  characteristics  analo- 
gous to  those  of  the  nation  tl  music. 


DARKLY  the  cloud  of  night  comos  rolling  on 
Darker  is  thy  repose,  my  fair-haired  son  ! 

Silent  and  dark. 

There  is  blood  upon  the  threshold 

Whence  thy  step  went  forth  at  morn 
Like  a  dancer's  in  its  fleetness, 

0  my  bright  first-born  1 

At  the  glad  sound  of  that  footstep, 
My  heart  within  me  smiled; 

— Thou  wert  brought  me  back  all  silent 
On  thy  bier,  my  child  t 

Darkly  the  cloud  of  night  comes  rolling  on; 
Darker  is  thy  repose,  my  fair-haired  son  I 

Silent  and  dark. 

I  thought  to  see  thy  children 
Laugh  on  me  with  thine  eyes; 

But  my  sorrow's  voice  is  lonely 
Where  my  life's  flower  lies. 

I  shall  go  to  sit  beside  thee, 

Thy  kindred's  graves  among; 
I  shall  hear  the  tall  grass  whisper— 

1  shall  hear  it  not  long  I 

Darkly  the  cloud  of  night  comes  rolling  on  ; 
Darker  is  thy  repose,  my  fair-haired  son  ! 
Silent  and  dark 

And  I  too  shall  find  slumber 
With  my  lost  one,  in  the  earth; 

— Let  none  light  up  the  ashes 
Again  on  our  hearth! 

Let  the  roof  go  down  ! — let  silence 

On  the  home  for  ever  fall, 
Where  my  boy  lay  cold,  and  heard  not 

His  lone  Mother's  call ! 

Darkly  the  cloud  of  night  comes  rolling  on  ; 
Darker  is  thy  repose,  my  fair-haired  son  I 

Silent  and  dark. 


ENGLAND'S  DEAD 


Son  of  the  Ocean  Isle ! 

Where  sleep  your  mighty  dead  ? 
Show  rue  what  high  and  stately  pile 

Is  rear'd  o'er  Glory's  bed. 

Go,  Stranger !  track  the  deep, 
Free,  free,  the  white  sail  spread? 

Wave  may  not  foam,  nor  wild  wind  sweep 
Where  rest  not  England's  dead. 

On  Egypt's  burning  plains, 

By  the  Pyramid  o'ersway'd, 
With  fearful  power  the  noon-day  reigns, 

And  the  Palm-trees  yield  no  shade. 

But  let  the  angry  sun 

From  heaven  took  fiercely  red, 
Unfelt  by  those  whose  task  is  done! 

There  slumber  England's  dead. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


209 


The  hurricane  hath  might 

Along  the  Indian  shore, 
And  far,  by  Ganges'  banks,  at  night 

Is  heard  the  tiger's  roar. 

But  let  the  sound  roll  on  ! 

It  hath  no  tone  of  dread, 
For  those  that  from  their  toils  are  gone— 

— There  slumber  England's  dead  ! 

Loud  rush  the  torrent  floods 

The  western  wilds  among, 
And  free,  in  green  Columbia's  woods. 

The  hunter's  bow  is  strung. 

B'lt  let  the  floods  rush  on ! 

Let  the  arrow's  flight  he  sped  ! 
Why  should  they  reek  whose  task  is  done? 

—There,  slumber  England's  dead. 

The  mountain  storms  rise  high 

In  the  snowy  Pyrenees, 
And  toss  the  pine-boughs  through  the  sky, 

Like  rose-leaves  on  the  breeze. 

But  let  the  storm  rage  on ! 

Let  the  fresh  wreaths  be  shed ! 
For  the  Roncesvalles'  field  is  won — 

—  There  slumber  England's  dead. 

On  the  frozen  deep's  repose, 

'Tis  a  dark  and  dreadful  hour 
Whon  round  the  ship  the  ice-fields  close 

And  the  northern  night-clouds  lower. 

But  let  the  ice  drift  on  1 
Let  the  cold  blue  desert  spread! 

Their  course  with  mast  and  flag  is  done— 
— Ev'n  there  sleep  England's  dead! 

The  warlike  of  the  Isles, 

The  men  of  field  and  wave! 
Are  not  the  rocks  their  funeral  piles? 

The  seas  and  shores  their  grave? 

Go,  Stranger!  track  the  deep! 

Free,  free  the  white  sail  spread! 
Wave  may  not  foam,  nor  wild  wind  sweep, 

Where  rest  not  England's  dead  1* 


FAR   AWAY.t 


FAR  away  I— my  home  is  far  away, 
Where  the  blue  sea  laves  a  mountain  shore; 

In  the  woods  1  hear  my  brothers  play, 
'Midst  the  flowers  my  sister  sings  once  more, 
Far  away! 

Far  away  !  my  dreams  are  far  away, 
When  at  midnight,  stars  and  shadows  reign  ; 

"Gentle  child,"  my  mother  seems  to  say, 
"  Follow  me  where  home  shall  smile  again  V 
Far  away  I 

Far  away !  my  hope  is  far  away, 

Where  love's  voice  young  gladness  may  restore; 
— O  thou  dove !  now  soaring  through  the  day, 

I.end  me  wings  to  reach  that  better  shore, 
Far  away 


THE  LYRE  AND  FLOWER. 

A  LYRE  its  plaintive  sweetness  pour'd 

Forth  on  the  wild  wind's  track  ; 
The  stormy  wanderer  jarr'd  the  chord, 

But  gave  no  music  back. 

•  Set  to  music  by  the  Author's  sister. 

tThis,  and  the  five  following  son«,  hare  been  let  to  mntic  of 
freat  merit,  by  1.  Zeugheer  Herrmann,  and  H.  F.  C.,  and  are  publish 
ad  in  a  let  by  Mr.  Power,  who  has  riven  permission  for  the  appear- 
•we  of  the  words  in  thii  Volume. 

14 


—Oh!  child  of  song! 

Bear  hence  to  heaven  thy  fire ! 
What  hop'st  thou  from  the"  reckless  throng  I 

Be  not  like  that  lost  lyre! 
Not  like  that  lyre! 

A  flower  its  leaves  and  odours  cast 

On  a  swift-rolling  wave; 
Th'  unheeding  torrent  darkly  pass'd, 
And  back  no  treasure  gave. 
—Oh  !  heart  of  love! 

Waste  not  thy  precious  dower  1 
Turn  to  thine  only  home  above, 
Be  not  like  that  lost  flower  I 
Not  like  that  flower. 


SISTER!  SINCE  I  MET  THEE  LAST 


SISTER  !  since  I  met  thee  last, 
O'er  thy  brow  a  change  hath  past. 
In  the  softness  of  thine  eyes 
Deep  and  still  a  shadow  lies; 
From  thy  voict?  there  thrills  a  tone, 
Never  to  thy  childhood  known  ; 
Through  thy  soul  a  storm  hath  moved. 
Gentle  sister,  thou  hast  loved  1 

Yes !  thy  varying  cheek  hath  caught 
Hues  too  bright  from  troubled  thought 
Far  along  the  wandering  stream, 
Thou  art  followed  by  a  dream; 
In  the  woods  and  valleys  lone, 
Music  haunts  thee  not  thii.e  own  : 
Wherefore  fall  thy  tears  like  rain  1 
Sister,  thou  hast  loved  in  vain  ! 

Tell  me  not  the  tale,  my  flower! 
On  my  bosom  pour  that  shower! 
Tell  me  not  of  kind  thoughts  wasted 
Tell  me  not  of  young  hopes  blasted  ; 

Wring  not  forth  one  burning  word. 
Let  thy  heart  no  more  be  stirr'd ! 
Home  alone  can  give  thee  rest. 
—Weep,  sweet  sister,  on  my  breast  I 


THE  LONELY  BIRD. 

FROM  a  ruin  thou  art  singing, 

Oh!  lonely,  lonely  bird  ! 
The  soft  blue  air  is  ringing, 

By  thy  summer  music  stirr'd  ; 
But  all  is  dark  and  colil  beneath, 

Where  harps  no  more  are  heard: 
Whence  winn'st  thou  that  exulting  breath. 

Oh!  lonely,  lonely  bird? 

Thy  song  flows  richly  swelling, 

To  a  triumph  of  glad  sounds, 
As  from  its  cavern  dwelling 

A  stream  in  glory  bounds! 
Thoiieh  the  castle  echoes  catch  no  tone 

Of  human  step  or  word, 

Tim'  the  fires  be  quench'd  and  the  feasting  done 
,   Oh!  lonely,  lonely  bird  ! 

How  can  that  flood  of  gladness 

Rush  through  thy  fiery  lay, 
From  the  haunted  place  of  sadness, 

From  the  bosom  of  decay? 
While  dirge-notes  in  the  breeze's  moan, 

Through  the  ivy  garlands  heard, 
Come  blent  with  thy  rejoicing  tone, 

Oh!  lonely,  lonely  bird  ! 

There's  many  a  heart,  wild  singer. 

Like  thy  forsaken  tower. 
Where  joy  no  more  may  linger. 

Where  love  hath  left  his  bower  : 
And  there's  many  a  spirit  e'en  like  thee. 

To  mirth  as  lightly  stirr'd, 
Though  it  soar  from  ruins  in  its  glee, 

Oh  I  lonely,  lonely  bird  I 


210 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  AVORKS. 


DIRGE   AT   SEA. 


SLEEP! — we  give  thee  to  the  wave, 
Red  with  life-blood  from  the  brave, 
Thou  shall  find  a  noble  grave. 
Fare  thee  well  1 

Sleep!  thy  billowy  field  is  won. 
Proudly  may  the  funeral  gun, 
'Midst  the  hush  at  set  of  sun, 
Boom  thy  knell ! 

Lonely,  lonely  is  thy  bed. 
Never  there  may  flower  be  shed, 
Marble  rear'd,  or  brother's  head 
Bow'd  to  weep. 

Yet  thy  record  on  the  sea. 
Borne  through  battle  high  and  free, 
Long  the  red  cross  flag  shall  be. 
Sleep!  O  sleep! 


PILGRIM'S  SONG  TO  THE  EVENING  STAR 


O  SOFT  star  of  the  west ! 

Gleaming  far, 
Thou'rt  guiding  all  things  home, 

Gentle  star! 
Thou  bring'st  from  rock  and  wara, 

The  sea-bird  to  her  nest, 
The  hunter  from  the  hills, 
The  fisher  back  to  rest. 
Light  of  a  thousand  streams, 

Gleaming  far ! 
O  soft  star  of  the  west. 

Blessed  star  t 

No  bowery  roof  is  mine. 

No  hearth  of  love  and  rest, 
Yet  guide  me  to  my.shrine, 

O  soft  star  of  the  west ! 
There,  there,  my  home  shall  be, 

Heaven's  dew  shall  cool  my  breast, 
When  prayer  and  tear  gush  free, 

— O  soft  star  of  the  west ! 

O  soft  star  of  the  west, 

Gleaming  far! 
Thou'rt  guiding  all  things  home, 

Gentle  star! 

Shine  from  thy  rosy  heaven, 
Pour  joy  on  earth  and  seal 
Shine  on,  though  no  sweet  eyes 

Look  forth  to  watch  for  me  I 
Light  of  a  thousand  streams, 

Gleaming  far  I 
O  soft  star  of  the  west  I 

Blessed  star ! 


THE  SPARTAN'S  MARCH. 


'  The  Spartans  used  not  the  trumpet  in  their  march 
Into  battle,"  BaysThucydides,  because  they  wished  not 
to  excite  the  rage  of  their  warriors.  Their  charging-step 
wai  made  "  to  the  Dorian  mood  of  flutes  and  soft  re- 
corders." The  valour  of  a  Spartan  was  too  highly  tem- 
pered to  require  a  stunning  or  rousing  impulse.  Hii 
ipirit  was  like  a  steed  too  proud  for  the  spur." Camp- 
Mi  on  the  Elegiac  Poetry  of  the  Greek*. 


'TWAS  morn  upon  the  Grecian  hills, 
Where  peasants  dress'd  the  vines, 

Sunlight  was  on  Cithteron's  rills, 
Arcadia's  rocks  and  pines. 


And  brightly,  through  his  reeds  and  flowers 

Eurotas  wander'd  by, 
When  a  sound  arose  from  Sparta's  towers 

Of  solemn  harmony.         / 

Was  it  the  hunter's  choral  strain 
To  the  woodland-goddess  pour'd  1 

Did  virgin  hands  in  Pallas'  fane 
Strike  the  full-sounding  chord  ? 

But  helms  were  glancing  on  the  stream, 

Spears  ranged  in  close  array, 
And  shields  nung  back  a  glorious  beam 

To  the  morn  of  a  fearful  day  I 

And  the  mountain  echoes  of  the  land 
Swell'd  through  the  deep-blue  sky, 

While  to  soft  strains  moved  forth  a  hand 
Of  men  that  moved  to  die. 

They  march'd  not  with  the  trumpet's  blast, 

Nor  bade  the  horn  peal  out. 
And  the  laurel-groves,  as  on  they  paps'd, 

Rung  with  no  battle-shout  I 

They  ask'd  no  clarion's  voice  to  fire 
Their  souls  with  an  impulse  high; 

But  the  Dorian  reed,  and  the  Spartan  lyre, 
For  the  sons  of  liberty  1 

And  still  sweet  flutes,  their  path  around, 

Sent  forth  JEolian  breath : 
They  needed  not  a  sterner  sound 

To  marshal  them  for  death  I 

So  moved  they  calmly  to  their  field, 

Thence  never  to  return, 
Save  bringing  back  the  Spartan  shield, 

Or  on  it  proudly  borne) 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  SHIPS. 


"We  take  each  other  by  the  hand,  and  we  exchange  a 
few  words  and  looks  of  kindness,  and  we  rejoice  toge- 
ther for  a  few  short  moments ;— and  then  days,  months, 
rears  intervene— and  we  see  and  know  nothing  of  each 
other." Washington  Irving. 


Two  barks  met  on  the  deep  mid-sea, 
When  calms  had  still'd  the  tide; 

A  few  bright  days  of  summer  glee 
There  found  them  side  by  side. 

And  voices  of  the  fair  and  brave 
Rose  mingling  thence  in  mirth; 

And  sweetly  floated  o'er  the  wave 
The  melodies  of  earth. 

Moonlight  on  that  lone  Indian  main 

Cloudless  and  lovely  slept ; — 
While  dancing  step,  and  festive  strain 

Each  deck  in  triumph  swept. 

And  hands  were  link'd,  and  answering  eyes 

With  kindly  meaning  shone; 
—Oh  I  brief  and  passing  sympathies, 

Like  leaves  together  blown  I 

A  little  while  such  joy  was  cast 

Over  the  deep's  repose. 
Till  the  loud  singing  winds  at  last 

Like  trumpet  music  rose. 

And  proudly,  freely  on  their  way 

The  parting  vessels  bore ; 
,  —In  calm  or  storm,  by  rock  or  bay 
To  meet — Oh  1  never  morel 

Never  to  blend  in  victory's  cheer. 

To  aid  in  hours  of  woe: — 
And  thus  bright  spirits  mingle  here, 

Such  ties  are  forui'd  below  1 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


211 


THE  ROCK  OF  CADER  IDRI& 

A    LEGEND   OF   WALES. 


It  it  an  old  tradition  of  the  Welsh  Bards,  that  on  the 
summit  of  the  mountain  Cader  Iilris,  is  an  excavation 
resembling  a  couch ;  and  that  whoever  should  pass  a 
night  in  that  hollow,  would  be  found  in  the  morning 
either  dead,  in  a  state  of  frenzy,  or  endowed  with  the 
highest  poetical  inspiration.  This  song  is  one  of  a  "Se- 
lection of  Welsh  Melodies,  arranged  by  John  Parry,  and 
published  by  Mr.  Power." 


I  LAY  on  that  rock  where  the  storing  have  their 

dwelling, 
'  The  birth-place  of  phantoms,  the  home  of  the 

cloud ; 

Around  it  for  ever  deep  music  is  swelling, 
The  voice  of  the  mountain-wind,  solemn  and 

loud. 

'Twas  a  midnight  of  shadows  all  fitfully  streaming, 
Of  wild  waves  and  breezes,  that  mingled  their 

moan  ; 
Of  dim  shrouded  stars,  as  from  gulphs  faintly 

gleaming, 
And  I  met  the  dread  gloom  of  its  grandeur  alone. 

I  lay  there  in  silence— a  Spirit  came  o'er  me; 
Man's  tongue  hath  no  language  to  speak  what 

I  saw  ; 
Things  glorious,  unearthly,  pass'd  floating  before 

me, 
And  my  heart  almost  fainted  with  rapture  and 

awel 
I  view'd  the  dread  beings,  around  us  that  hover. 

Though  veil'd  by  Hie  mists  of  mortality's  breath ; 
And  I  call'd  upon  darkness  the  vision  to  cover, 
For  a  strife  was  within  me  of  madness  and  death. 

I  saw  them — the  powers  of  the  wind  and  the  ocean, 
The  rush  of  whose  pinion  bears  onward  the 

Florins  ; 
Like  the  sweep  of  the  white-rolling  wave   was 

their  motion, 
I  felt  their  dim  presence,— but  knew  not  their 

forms ! 
I  saw  them— the  mighty  of  ages  departed — 

The  dead  were  around  me  that  night  on  the  hill : 
Prom  their  eyes,  as  they  pass'd,  a  co!d  radiance 

they  darted, 

—There  was  light  on  my  soul,  but  my  heart's  blood 
was  chill. 

I  saw  what  man  looks  on,  and  dies — but  my  spirit 

Was  strong,  and  triumphantly  lived  thro1  that 

hour: 
And  as  from  the  grave,  I  awoke  to  inherit 

A  flame  all  immortal,  a  voice,  and  a  power! 
Day  burst  on  that  rock  with  the  purple  cloud  crested, 

And  high  Cader  Idris  rejoiced  in  the  sun ; 
— But  oh  I  what  new  glory  all  nature  invested, 

When  the  sense  which  gives  soul  to  her  beauty 
was  won  1 


A  FAREWELL  TO  WALES. 

FOR  THE  MELODY  CALLED  "  THE  ASH  GROVE." 
ON  LEAVING  THAT  COCNTRY  WITH  MY  CHILDREN. 


THE  sound  of  thy  streams  in  my  spirit  I  bear — 
—Farewell !  and  a  blessing  be  with  thee,  green 

landl 

On  thy  hearths,  on  thy  halls,  on  thy  pure  moun- 
tain-air, 
On  the  chords  of  the  harp,  and  the  minstrel's  free 

hand! 
From  the  love  of  my  soul  with  my  tears  it  is 

shed, 

As  I  leave  thee,  green  land  of  my  home  and 
my  dead  I 


I  bless  thee! — yet  not  for  thf.  beauty  which  dwells 
In  the  heart  of  thy  hills,  on  the  rocks  of  thy  shore; 
And  not  for  the  memory  set  deep  in  thy  dells, 
Of  the  bard  and  the  hero,  the  mighty  of  yore ; 
And  not  for  thy  songs  of  those  proud  ages  fled, 
Green  land.  Poet-land  of  my  homuand  my  dead! 

I  bless  thee  for  all  the  true  bosoms  that  beat, 

Where'er  a  low  hamlet  smiles  up  to  thy  skies, 
For  thy  cottage  hearths,  burning  the  stranger  to 

greet. 
For  the  soul  that  shines  forth  from  thy  children's 

kind  eyes  1 
May  the  blessing,  like  sunshine,  about  thee 

be  spread, 

Green  land  of  my  childhood,  my  home,  and  my 
dead! 


THE  DYING  BARD'S  PROPHECY.* 


44  All  it  not  lost — the  unconquerable  will 
And  courage  never  to  iubmit  or  yield." 


THE  Hall  of  Harps  is  lone  to-night, 

And  cold  the  chieftain's  hearth; 
It  hath  no  mead,  it  hath  no  light, 

No  voice  of  melody,  no  sound  of  mirth. 

The  bow  lies  broken  on  the  floor 

Whence  the  free  step  is  gone ; 
The  pilgrim  turns  him  from  the  door 

Where  minstrel-blood  hath  stain'd  the  thresho'd 
stone. 

And  I  too  go — my  wound  is  deep, 

My  brethren  long  have  died — 
Yet  ere  my  soul  grow  dark  with  sleep. 

Winds  1  bear  the  spoiler  one  more  tone  of  pride 

Bear  it,  where  on  his  battle  plain. 

Beneath  the  setting  sun, 
He  counts  my  country's  noble  slain — 

Say  to  him— Saxon  !  think  not  all  is  won. 

Thou  hast  laid  low  the  warrior's  head. 

The  minstrel's  dhainless  hand  ; 
— Dreamer !  that  number'st  with  the  dead, 

The  burning  spirit  of  the  mountain  land! 

Think'st  thou  because  the  song  hath  ceased, 

The  soul  of  song  is  flown  ? 
Think'st  thou  it  woke  to  crown  the  feast, 

It  lived  beside  the  ruddy  hearth  alone  ? 

No!  by  our  wrongs,  and  by  our  blood. 

We  leave  it  pure  and  free — 
Though  hush'd  awhile,  that  sounding  flood 

Shall  roll  in  joy  through  ages  yet  to  be. 

We  leave  it  'midst  our  country's  woe, 

The  birth-right  of  her  breast— 
We  leave  it  as  we  leave  the  snow 

Bright  and  eternal  on  fEryri's  crest. 

We  leave  it  with  our  fame  to  dwell 

Upon  our  children's  breath. 
Our  voice  in  theirs  through  time  shall  swell — 

The  Bard  hath  gifts  of  prophecy  from  death. 

He  dies— but  yet  the  mountains  stand, 

Yet  sweeps  the  torrent's  tide ; 
And  this  is  yet  J-tfnearin'*  land — 

Winds!  bear  the  spoiler  one  more  tone  of  pride! 


•  At  the  time  of  the  toppoted  m«racre  of  th*  Welih  tardi  h» 
Edward  the  Fint. 

t  Eryri,  Welsh  nuM  for  the  Snowdon  mountain*, 
t  Aneurin,  one  of  the  nobleit  at  the  Welth  Urdfc 


212 


I1EMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


COME    AWAY!» 


COME  away  1 — the  child,  where  flowers  are  spring. 

ing 

Rouiul  its  footsteps  on  the  mountain  dope, 
Hears  a  glad  voice  from  the  upland  singing, 
Like  the  sky-lark's  with  its  tone  of  hope* 
Come  away  I 

Bounding  on,  with  sunny  lands  before  him. 
All  the  wealth  of  glowing  life  outspread. 

Ere  the  shadow  of  a  cloud  comes  o'er  him. 
By  that  strain  the  youth  in  joy  is  led: 
Come  away  I 

Slowly,  sadly,  heavy  change  is  falling 
O'er  the  sweetness  of  the  voice  within  ; 

Yet  its  tones,  on  restless  manhood  calling, 
Urge  the  hunter  still  to  chase,  to  win : 
Come  away! 

Come  away ! — the  heart,  at  last  forsaken. 
Smile  by  smile,  hath  proved  each  hope  untrue  i 

Yet  a  breath  can  still  those  words  awaken. 
Though  to  other  shores  far  hence  they  woo : 
Come  away! 

In  the  light  leaves,  in  the  reed's  faint  sighing, 
In  the  low  sweet  sounds  of  early  spring, 

Still  their  music  wanders — till  the  dying 
Hears  them  pass,  as  on  a  spirit's  wing : 
Come  away! 


MUSIC  FROM  SHORE. 


A  BOUND  comes  on  the  rising  breeze, 

A  sweet  and  lovely  sound! 
Piercing  the  tumult  of  the  seas 

That  wildly  dash  around. 

From  land,  from  sunny  land  it  comes, 
From  hills  with  murmuring  trees. 

From  paths  by  still  and  happy  homes- 
Thai  sweet  sound  on  the  breeze. 

Why  should  its  faint  and  passing  sigh 
Thus  bid  my  quick  pulse  leap? 

No  part  in  earth  s  glad  melody 
Is  mine  upon  the  deep. 

Yet  blessing,  blessing  on  the  spot. 
Whence  those  rich  breathings  flow! 

Kind  hearts,  although  they  know  me  not. 
Like  mine  there  beat  and  glow. 

And  blessing,  from  the  bark  that  roams 

O'er  solitary  seas, 
To  those  that  far  in  happy  homes 

Give  sweet  sounds  lo  the  breeze! 


FAIR  HELEN  OF  KIRCONNEL. 


•  Fair  Helen  of  Kirronnol,"  ai  she  is  called  in  the 
Scottish   Minstrelsy,  throwing  Iternelf  between  her  be- 
trothed lover  and  a  rival  by  whom  his  life  was  assailed, 
received  a  mortal  wound,  and  died  in  the  arms  of  to* 
former. 

HOIK  me  upon  thy  faithful  heart. 

Keep  back  my  flitting  breath; 
Tis  early,  early  to  depart, 

Beloved  f— yet  this  is  death  I 

Look  on  me  still :— let  that  kind  ejr» 

Be  the  last  light  I  see  >. 
Oh  I  sad  it  is  in  sprint'  to  die. 

But  yet  I  die  for  time  ' 

•  Thii  mat '«  in  the  prmminn  of  Mr.  Pimer,  to  be  nl  to  aMM, 


For  thee,  my  own !  thy  stately  head 

Was  never  thus  to  bow  !— 
Give  tears  when  with  me  love  hath  fled. 

True  love,  thou  know'st  it  now  1 

Oh !  the  free  streams  lock'd  bright,  where'er 

We  in  our  gladness  roved  ; 
And  the  blue  skies  were  very  fair — 

O  friend  !  because  we  loved. 

Farewell !— I  bless  thee— live  thou  on, 

When  this  young  heart  is  low  1 
Surely  my  blood  thy  life  hath  won— 

Clasp  me  once  more— I  go  I 


t  LOOK  ON  ME  WITH  THY  CLOUDLESS 
EYES. 


LOOK  on  m«  with  thy  cloudless  eyes. 
Truth  in  their  dark  transparence  lies; 
Their  sweetness  gives  me  back  the  tears, 
And  the  free  trust  of  early  years; 

My  gentle  child) 

The  spirit  of  my  infant  prayer 
Shines  in  the  depths  of  quiet  there; 
And  home  and  love  once  more  are  mine, 
Found  in  that  dewy  calm  divine, 

My  gentle  child! 

Oh !  heaven  is  with  thee  in  thy  dreams, 
Its  light  by  day  around  thee  gleams: 
Thy  smile  hath  gifts  frnm  vernal  skies ; 
—Look  on  me  with  thy  cloudless  eyes, 
My  gentle  child ! 


I  GO,  SWEET  FRIENDS. 


t  oo,  sweet  friends !  yet  think  of  me 

When  Spring's  young  voice  awakes  the  flowers 
For  we  have  wander'd  far  and  free, 

In  those  bright  hours,  the  violet's  hours. 

f  go— but  when  you  pause  to  hear, 
From  distant  hills,  the  Sabbath  bell 

On  summer  winds  float  silvery  clear. 
Think  on  me  then — I  loved  it  well! 

Forget  me  not  around  your  hearth. 
When  cheerly  smiles  the  ruddy  blaze. 

For  dear  hath  been  its  evening  mirth 
To  me,  sweet  friends !  in  other  days. 

And  oh!  when  music's  voice  is  heard 

To  melt  in  strains  of  parting  woe. 
When  hearts  to  love  and  grief  are  stirrM— 

—Think  of  me  then '  I  go,  I  go  ! 


IF  THOU  HAST  CRUSHED  A  FLOWER. 


OhcatUboinot 

Affection  from  thee !  In  thii  bitter  world 
Bold  to  thy  heart  that  only  treasure  fut ; 
Watch— guard  it— niffer  not  a  breath  to  di 
The  bright  gem's  purity  1 

lr  thou  hast  cnish'd  a  flower. 
The  root  may  not  be  blighted; 

If  thou  hast  qtiench'd  a  lamp, 
Once  more  it  may  he  lighted: 


t  The  toon  marked  thin  ,'  ire  in  the  fomcm'xm  of  Mr.  W*5i»,  • 
be  published  by  him  with  nunir. 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


213 


But  on  thy  hnrp  or  on  thy  lute. 
The  string  which  thou  hast  broken, 

Shall  never  in  sweet  sound  again 
Give  to  thy  touch  a  token  I 

If  thou  hast  loosed  a  bird, 

Whose  voice  of  song  could  cheer  thee. 
Still,  still  he  may  be  won 

From  the  skies  to  warble  near  thee : 
But  if  upon  tin-  troubled  sea 

Thou  hast  thrown  a  gem  unheeded, 
Hope  not  that  wind  or  wave  will  bring 

The  treasure  back  when  needed. 

If  thou  has*,  bruised  a  vine. 

The  summer's  breath  is  healing, 
And  its  clusters  yet  may  glow, 

Through  the  leaves  their  hloom  revealing 
But  if  thou  hast  a  cup  overthrown 

With  a  bright  draught  fill'd— oh!  never 
Shall  earth  give  back  that  lavish'd  wealth. 

To  cool  thy  parch'd  lip's  fever ! 

The  heart  is  like  that  cup, 

If  thou  waste  the  love  it  bore  thee; 
And  like  that  jewel  gone. 

Which  the  deep  will  not  restore  thee 
in.-1  like  that  strain  of  harp  or  lute 

Whence  the  sweet  sound  is  scatter'd  : — 
•ently,  oh  !  gentiy  touch  the  chords. 

So  goon  for  ever  shattered! 


HRIGHTLV  HAST  THOU  FLED. 


URIOHTLY,  brightly  hast  thou  fled, 
»'_•  one  grief  had  bow'd  thy  head. 

Brightly  didst  thou  part  I 
With  thy  young  thoughts  pure  from  spot. 
With  thy  fond  love  wasted  not, 

With  thy  bounding  heart. 

Ne'er  by  sorrow  to  be  wet, 
Caliuly  smiles  thy  pale  cheek  yet, 

Ere  with  dust  o'erspread  . 
Lilie*  ne'er  by  tempest  blown. 
White-rose  which  no  stain  hath  known. 

Be  about  thee  shod! 

So  we  give  thee  to  the  earth, 
And  the  primrose  shall  have  birth 

O'er  thy  gentle  head  ; 
Thou  that  like  a  dew-drop,  borne 
On  a  sudden  breeze  of  morn. 

Brightly  tbus  hast  fled  ! 


I  SING  TO  ME,  GONDOLIER! 


SINO  to  MC    Gondolier  ! 

Sing  wtrils  from  Tasso's  lay; 
While  blue,  and  still,  and  clear, 

Night  seei.u  but  softer  day: 
The  gale  is  g-satly  falling 

As  if  it  paiutd  to  hear 
Some  strain  tlv  vast  recalling; 

Sing  to  me.  Cordelier! 

Oh,  ask  me  not  to  vake 

The  memory  of  H  t,  brave  ; 
Bid  no  high  numbers  break 

The  silence  of  the  wave. 
Gone  are  the  noble-hearted, 

Closed  the  bright  pageants  here ; 
And  the  glad  song  is  departed 

From  the  mournful  Gondolier  > 


O'ER  THE  FAR  BLUE  MOUNTAINS.' 


O'ER  the  far  blue  mountain*, 
O'er  the  white  sea  foam, 

Come,  thou  long  parted  ouet 
Back  to  thine  home! 

When  the  bright  fire  shineth, 

Sad  looks  thy  place, 
While  the  true  heart  pi  net  b 

Missing  thy  face. 

Music  is  sorrowful 
Since  thou  art  gone. 

Sisters  are  mourning  thee. 
Come  to  thine  own! 

Hark !  the  home  voices  call 

Back  to  thy  rest ; 
Come  to  thy  father's  hall, 

Thy  mother's  breast  1 

O'er  the  far  blue  mountains, 
O'er  the  white  sea  foam. 

Come,  thou  long  parted  one  I 
Back  to  thine  borne  ! 


O  THOU  BREEZE  OF  SPRING.* 


O  THOU  breeze  of  spring ! 

Gladdening  sea  and  shore. 
Wake  the  woods  to  sing. 

Wake  my  heart  no  more 
Streams  have  felt  the  sighing 

Of  thy  scented  wing, 
Let  each  fount  replying 

Hail  thee,  breeze  of  spring. 
Once  more ! 

O'er  long  buried  flowers 

Passing,  not  in  vain. 
Odours  in  soft  showers 

Thou  hast  brought  again. 
—Let  the  primrose  greet  thee. 

Let  the  violet  pour 
Incense  forth  to  meet  thee— 

Wake  my  heart  no  more  I 
No  more  I 

From  a  funeral  urn 

Bower'd  in  leafy  gloom, 
Ev'n  tliy  soft  return 

Calls  not  song  or  bloom. 
Leave  my  spirit  sleeping 

Like  that  silent  thing; 
Stir  the  founts  of  weeping 

There,  O  breeze  of  spring. 
No  more ! 


COME  TO  ME,  DREAMS  OF  HEAVEN. 


COMB  to  me,  dreams  of  heaven  ! 

My  fainting  spirit  bear 
On  your  bright  wings,  by  morning  given, 

Up  to  celestial  air. 
Away,  far,  far  away, 

From  bowers  by  tempests  riven. 
Fold  me  in  blue,  still,  cloudless  day, 

O  blessed  dreams  of  heaven  '. 


Come  but  for  one  brief  hour. 
Sweet  dreams!  and  yet  again. 

O'er  burning  thought  and  memor; 
Your  soft  effacing  rain  I 

•  Set  to  mule  bj  the  Author*!  inter. 
t  Set  to  music  by  John  J/odjr,  Ex). 


ry  shower 


214 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Waft  me  where  gales  divine, 
With  dark  clouds  ne'er  have  striven, 

Where  living  founts  for  ever  shine— 
O  blessed  dreams  of  heaven!* 


GOOD  NIGHT.t 


DAT  is  past ! 

Stars  have  set  their  watch  at  last, 
Founts  that  through  the  deep  woods  flow 
Make  sweet  sounds,  unheard  till  now. 
Flowers  have  shut  with  fading  light — 
Good  night ! 

Go  to  rest  I 

Sleep  sit  dove-like  on  thy  breast  I 
If  within  that  secret  cell 
One  dark  form  of  memory  dwell, 
Be  it  mantled  from  thy  sight- 
Good  night  I 

Joy  be  thine ! 

Kind  looks  o'er  thy  slumbers  shine  1 
Go,  and  in  the  spirit-land 
Meet  thy  home's  long  parted  band, 
Be  their  eyes  ali  love  and  light — 
Good  night  1 

Peace  to  all ! 

Dreams  of  heaven  on  mourners  fall ' 
Exile  I  o'er  thy  couch  may  gleams 
Pass  from  thine  own  mountain  streams; 
Bard  I  away  to  worlds  more  bright — 
Good  night  I 


LET  HER  DEPART. 


HER  home  ia  far,  oh !  far  away ! 

The  clear  light  in  her  eyes 
Hath  naught  to  do  with  earthly  day, 

'T  is  kindled  from  the  skies. 
Let  her  depart  I 

She  looks  upon  the  things  of  earth, 

Bv'n  as  some  gentle  star 
Seems  gazing  down  on  grief  or  mirth, 

How  softly,  yet  how  far  ! 

Let  her  depart  t 

Her  spirit's  hope — her  bosom's  love—- 
Oh! could  they  mount  and  fly! 

She  never  sees  a  wandering  dove, 
But  for  its  wings  to  sigh. 

Let  her  depart ! 

She  never  hears  a  soft  wind  bear 

Low  music  on  its  way, 
But  deems  it  sent  from  heavenly  air. 

For  her  who  cannot  stay. 
Let  her  depart. 

Wrapt  in  a  cloud  of  glorious  dreams, 
She  breathes  and  moves  alone. 

Pining  for  those  bright  bowers  and  streams 
Where  her  beloved  is  gone. 
Let  her  depart ! 


I  I  WOULD  WE  HAD  NOT  MET  AGAIN 


I  WOULD  we  bad  not  met  again ! 

—I  had  a  dream  of  thee, 
Lovely,  though  sad,  on  desert  plain, 

Mournful  on  midnight  sea. 


•  Sat  to  muiic  by  Mi  n  Onm. 
For  a  melody  of  EUenboto'i. 


What  though  it  haunted  me  by  night 
And  troubled  through  the  day? 

It  touch'd  all  earth  with  spirit-light, 
It  glorified  my  way  I 

Oh'  what  shall  now  my  faith  restore 

In  holy  things  and  fair1! 
We  met — 1  saw  thy  soul  once  more — 

— The  world's  breath  had  been  there  t 

Yes!  it  was  sad  on  desert-plain, 

Mournful  on  midnight  sea, 
Yet  would  I  buy  with  life  again 

That  one  deep  dream  of  thee  ! 


WATER-LILIES. 

A  FAIRY-SONG. 


COME  away,  Elves  !  while  the  dew  is  sweet, 

Com<>  to  the  dingles  where  fairies  meet ; 

Know  that  the  lilies  have  spread  their  bells 

O'er  all  the  pools  in  our  forest-dells ; 

Stilly  and  lightly  their  vases  rest 

On  the  quivering  sleep  of  the  water's  breast, 

Catching  the  sunshine  through  leaves  that  threw 

To  their  scented  bosoms  an  emerald  glow  ; 

And  a  star  from  the  depth  of  each  pearly  cup, 

A  golden  star  unto  heaven  looks  up, 

As  if  seeking  its  kindred  where  bright  they  lie, 

Set  in  the  blue  of  the  summer  sky. 

— Come  away  !  under  arching  boughs  we'll  float. 

Making  those  urns  each  a  fairy  boat ; 

We'll  row  them  with  reeds  o'er  the  fountains  free 

And  a  tall  flag  leaf  shall  our  streamer  be, 

And  we'll  send  out  wild  music  so  sweet  and  low, 

It  shall  seem  from  the  bright  flower's  heart  to  flow 

As  if  'twere  a  breeze  with  a  flute's  low  sigh, 

Or  water-drops  train'd  into  melody. 

—Come  away !  forthe  midsummer  sun  grows  strong 

And  the  life  of  the  lily  may  not  be  long. 


t  THE  BROKEN  FLOWER. 

OR!  wear  it  on  thy  heart,  my  love  I 

Still,  still  a  little  while  ! 
Sweetness  is  lingering  in  its  leaves. 

Though  faded  be  their  smile. 
Yet,  for  the  sake  of  what  hath  been. 

Oh  1  cast  it  not  away  ! 
T  was  born  to  grace  a  summer  scene, 

A  long,  bright,  golden  day. 
My  love  ! 

A  long,  bright,  golden  day! 

A  little  while  around  thee,  love! 

Its  fragrance  yet  shall  cling. 
Telling,  that  on  thy  heart  hath  Iain, 

A  fair,  though  faded  thing. 
But  not  ev'n  that  warm  heart  hath  pow« 

To  win  it  back  from  fate  : 
—Oh  !  /  am  like  thy  broken  flower, 

Cherish'd  too  late,  too  late. 
My  love  1 

Cherish'd,  alas!  too  late  t 


FAIRIES'  RECALL. 


WHILE  the  blue  is  richest 

In 'the  starry  sky. 
While  the  softest  shadow* 

On  the  greensward  lie. 
While  the  moonlight  slumbers 

In  the  lily's  urn, 
Bright  elves  of  the  wild  wood  I 

Oh!  return,  return! 

Round  the  forest  fountain. 

On  the  river  shore, 
Let  your  silvery  laughter 

Echo  vet  once  more 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


21$ 


While  the  joyous  bounding 

Of  j'our  dewy  feet 
Rings  to  that  old  chorus  : 

"  The  daisy  is  so  sweet  I"* 

Oberon,  Titania, 

Did  your  starlight  mirth, 
With  the  song  of  Avon. 

Unit  this  work-day  earth  1 
Yet  while  green  leaves  glisten, 

And  while  bright  stars  burn, 
By  that  magic  memory, 

Oh,  return,  return  I 


BY  A  MOUNTAIN  STREAM  AT  REST. 


BY  a  mountain  stream  at  rest, 
We  found  the  warrior  lying, 
And  around  his  noble  breast 
A  banner,  clasp'd  in  dying: 
Dark  and  still 
Was  every  hill. 
And  the  winds  of  night  were  sighing. 

Last  of  his  noble  race, 

To  a  lonely  bed  we  bore  him  ; 
T  was  a  green,  still,  solemn  place 
Where  the  mountai  n  heath  waves  o'er  him. 
Woods  alone 
Seem  to  moan. 
Wild  streams  to  deplore  him. 

Yet,  from  festive  hall  and  lay 

Our  sad  thoughts  oft  are  flying, 
To  those  dark  hills  far  away. 

Where  in  death  we  found  him  lying; 
On  his  breast 
A  banner  press'd. 
And  the  night-wind  o'er  him  sighing 


THE  ROCK  BESIDE  THE  SEA. 


OR  !  tell  me  not  the  woods  are  fair, 

Now  Spring  is  on  her  way  ; 
Well,  well  I  know  how  brightly  there 

In  joy  the  young  leaves  play  ; 
How  sweet  on  winds  of  morn  or  eve 

The  violet's  breath  may  be ; — 
—Yet  ask  me,  woo  me  riot  to  leave 

My  lone  rock  by  the  sea 

The  wild  wave's  thunder  on  the  shore. 

The  curlew's  restless  cries, 
Unto  my  watching  heart  are  more 

Than  all  earth's  melodies. 
— Come  hack,  my  ocean  rover  !  cornel 

There 's  but  one  place  for  me, 
Till  I  can  greet  thy  swift  sail  home— 

— My  lone  rock  by  the  sea! 


O  YE  VOICES  GONE.f 

OH  !  ye  voices  gone, 

Sounds  of  other  years ! 
Hush  that  haunting  tone. 

Melt  me  not  to  tears! 
All  around  forget, 

All  who  loved  you  well, 
Yet,  sweet  voices,  yet 

O'er  my  soul  ye  swell. 

With  the  winds  of  spring, 

With  the  breath  of  flowers, 
Floating  back,  ye  bring 

Thoughts  of  vanish'd  hours. 
Hence  your  music  take, 

Oh  I  ye  voices  gone  I 
This  lone  heart  ye  make 

But  more  deeply  lone. 


:n\  Mm  h   Cnrtxu 


IS  THERE  SOME  SPIRIT  SIGHING. 


Is  there  some  spirit  sighing 

With  sorrow  in  the  air. 
Can  weary  hearts  be  dying. 

Vain  love  repining  there! 
If  not,  then  how  can  that  wild  wail, 

O  sad  /Kolian  lyre  1 
Be  drawn  forth  by  the  wandering  gale, 

From  thy  deep  thrilling  wire? 

No,  no! — thou  dost  not  borrow 

That  sadness  from  the  wind, 
Nor  are  those  tones  of  sorrow 

In  thee,  O  harp!  enshrined; 
But  in  <mr  own  hearts  deeply  set 

Lies  the  true  quivering  lyre, 
Whence  love,  and  memory,  and  regret, 

Wake  answers  from  thy  wire. 


THE  NAME  OF  ENGLAND. 


THE  trumpet  of  the  battle 

Hath  a  high  and  thrilling  tone  ; 
And  the  first  deep  gun  of  an  ocean  fight 

Dread  music  all  its  own. 

But  a  mightier  power,  my  England  I 

Is  in  that  name  of  thine. 
To  strike  the  Are  from  every  heart 

Along  the  baniier'd  line. 

Proudly  it  woke  the  spirits 

Of  yore,  the  brave  and  true, 
When  the  bow  was  bent  on  Cressy's  field. 

And  the  yeoman's  arrow  flew. 

And  proudly  hath  it  floated 

Through  the  battles  of  the  sea, 
When  the  red-cross  flag  o'er  smoke-wreath* 
play'd 

Like  the  lightning  in  its  glee. 

On  rock,  on  wave,  on  bastion, 

Its  echoes  have  been  known, 
By  a  thousand  streams  the  hearts  lie  tow. 

That  have  answer'd  to  its  tone. 

A  thousand  ancient  mountains 

Its  pealing  note  hath  stirr'd  ; 
— Sound  on,  and  on,  for  evermore, 

O  thou  victorious  word  1 


COME  TO  ME,  GENTLE  SLEEP 


COME  to  me,  gentle  sleep  I 

I  pine,  I  pine  for  thee  ; 
Come  with  thy  spells,  the  soft,  the  deep. 

And  set  my  spirit  free ! 
Each  lonely,  burning  thought, 

In  twilight  languor  steep — 
Come  to  the  full  heart,  long  overwrought, 

O  gentle,  gentle  sleep! 

Come  with  thine  urn  of  dew, 

Sleep,  gentle  sleep!  yet  bring 
No  voice,  love's  yearning  to  renew, 

No  vision  on  thy  wing  I 
Come,  as  to  folding  flowers, 

To  birds  in  forests  deep ; 
— Long,  dark,  and  dreamless  be  thine  hour% 

O  gentle, gentle  sleep! 

fOL.  III.— 10 


21ft 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


OLD   NORWAY* 

A     MOUNTAIN      WAR-SONG. 

"To  a  Norwegian  the  words  flain/e.  Nnrge  (Old 
Norway)  have  a  spell  in  them  immediate  mid  powerful : 
they  cannot  bp  register).  Gamlr  Niirgf  is  heard,  in  an 
instant  repeated  hy  every  voice:  the  clnsxeK  nr  filled, 
raised,  and  drained  .  nnt  a  drop  is  left :  and  then  bursts 
forth  the  simultmieoue  chorus  "For  Jforgc!"  the  na- 
tional SOUK  of  Norwaj  Here,  (at  Ohrist'mnsaml)  and 
in  a  hundred  nther  ingtances  in  Norway.  I  have  seen 
the  character  of  a  company  entirely  changer)  by  the 
chance  introduction  of  the  expression  Gnmle  Norge 
The  gravest  discussion  is  instantly  interrupted:  and  one 
might  sii|>|)OM'  for  the  moment,  that  the  parly  was  a 
party  of  patriots,  assembled  to  commemorate  some  na- 
tional anniversary  of  freedom." — Derwfnl  Grnway's 
Personal  Narrative  of  a  Journey  through  Norway 
and  Sweden. 

The  following  words  were  written  to  the  national  air, 
as  contained  in  the  work  above  cited. 


ARISE!  old  Norway  sends  the  word 

Of  battle  on  the  blast; 
Her  voice  the  forest  pines  have  stirr'd. 

As  if  a  storm  went  past ; 
Her  thousand  hills  the  call  have  heard, 

And  forth  their  fire-flags  cast. 

Arm,  arm,  free  hunters  I  for  the  chase, 

The  kingly  chase  of  foes; 
Tis  not  the  bear  or  wilil  wolfs  race, 

Whose  trampling  shakes  the  snows; 
Arm,  arm  !  't  is  on  a  nobler  trace 

The  northern  spearman  goes. 

Our  hills  have  dark  and  strong  defiles, 

With  many  an  icy  bed  ; 
Heap  there  the  rocks  for  funeral  piles, 

Above  the  invader's  head! 
Or  let  the  seas,  that  guard  our  Isles, 

Give  burial  to  his  dead  I 


ENGLISH  SOLDIER'S  SONG  OF  MEMORY. 

TO   THE  AIR    OF  "AM   HIIK1.V,   AM   RHK1N.'" 


SINO,  sing  in  memory  of  the  brave  departed. 

Let  song  and  wine  be  pour'd ! 
Pledge  to  their  fame,  the  free  and  fearless  hearted. 

Our  brethren  of  the  sword ! 

Oft  at  the  feast,  and  in  the  fight,  their  voices 

Have  mingled  with  our  own  ; 
Pill  high  the  cup,  but  when  the  soul  rejoices, 

Forget  not  who  are  gone ! 

They  that  stood  with  us,  'midst  the  dead  and  dying, 

On  Albuera's  plain; 
They  that  beside  us  cheerly  track'd  the  flying, 

Far  o'er  the  hills  of  Spain : 

They  that  amidst  us,  when  the  shells  were  show- 
ering, 

From  old  Rodrigo's  wall, 

The  rampart  scaled,  through  clouds  of  battle  tow- 
ering, 
First,  first  at  victory's  call  I 

They  that  upheld  the  banners,  proudly  waving, 

In  Roncesvalles*  dell ; 

— With  England's  blood  the  southern  vineyard* 
laving. 

Forget  not  how  they  fell  1 

Sing,  sing  in  memory  of  the  brave  departed. 

Let  song  and  wine  be  pour'd  ' 
Pledge  to  their  fame,  the  free  and  fearless  hearted, 

Our  brethren  of  the  sword ! 

•Thwe  words  have  been  published,  as  arranged  to  the  spirited 
national  a  r  of  Norway,  by  Charles  Graves,  Esq. 


iiUsccllaucous 


THE  HOME  OF  LOVE 


THOU  movest  in  visions.  Love  ! — Around  thy  way 
E'en  through  this  world's  rough  path  and  change- 
ful day, 

For  ever  floats  a  gleam, 

Not  from  the  realms  of  moonlight  or  the  morn. 
But  thine  own  soul's  illiiiniiieil  chambers  born — 

The  colouring  of  a  dream  1 

Love,  shall  I  read  thy  dream  ? — oh !  is  it  not 
All  of  some  sheltering,  wood-emuosom'd  spot — 

A  bower  for  thee  and  thine  ? 
Yes!  lone  and  lowly  is  that  home;  yet  there 
Something  of  heaven  in  the  transparent  air 

Makes  every  flower  divine. 

Something  that  mellows  and  that  glorifies. 
Breathes  o'er  it  ever  from  the  tender  skies, 

As  o'er  some  blessed  isle; 
E'en  like  the  soft  and  spiritual  glow, 
Kindling  rich  woods,  whereon  th'  ethereal  bow 

Sleeps  lovingly  awhile. 

The  very  whispers  of  the  wind  have  there 
A  flute-like  harmony  that  seems  to  bear 

Greeting  from  some  bright  shore, 
i  Where  none  have  said  farewell! — Where  no  decay 
1  Lends  the  faint  crimson  to  the  dying  day  ; 

Where  the  storm's  might  is  o'er 

And  there  thou  dreamest  of  Elysian  rest, 
In  the  deep  sanctuary  of  one  true  breast 

Hidden  from  earthly  ill: 
There  wouldst   thou  watch   the  homeward  step, 

whose  sound 
Wakening  all  nature  to  sweet  echoes  round, 

Thine  inmost  soul  can  thrill. 

There  by  the  hearth  should  many  a  glorious  page, 
Prom  mind  to  mind  th'  immortal  heritage, 
For  thee  its  treasures  pour; 
!  Or  music's  voice  at  vesper  hours  be  heard, 
I  Or  dearer  interchange. of  playful  word, 

Affection's  household  lore. 

And  the  rich  unison  of  mingled  prayer, 
The  melody  of  hearts  in  heavenly  air, 

Thence  duly  should  arise ; 
i  Lifting  th'  eternal  hope,  th'  adoring  breath, 
Of  spirits,  not  to  be  disjoin'd  by  death, 
Up  to  the  starry  skies. 

There,  dost  thou  well  believe,  nostorm  should  come 
To  mar  the  stillness  of  that  angel-home; — 

There  should  thy  slumbers  be 
Weigh'd  down  with  honey-dew,  serenely  bless'd, 
Like  theirs  who  first  in  Eden's  grove  look  rest 

Under  some  balmy  tree. 

Love,  Love!  thou  passionate  in  joy  and  woe! 
And  canst  thou  hone  for  cloudless  peace  below — 

Here,  where  bright  things  must  die  1 
Oh,  thou!  that  wildly  worshipping,  dost  shed 
On  the  frail  altar  of  a  mortal  head 

Gifts  of  infinity! 

Thou  must  he  still  a  trembler,  fearful  Love! 
Danger  seems  gathering  from  beneath,  abov«. 

Still  round  thy  precious  things; 
Thy  stately  pine-tree,  or  thy  gracious  rose, 
In  their  sweet  shade  can  yield  thee  no  repose. 

Here,  where  the  blight  hath  wing*. 

And,  as  a  flower  with  some  fine  sense  imbued 
To  shrink  before  the  wind's  vicissitude. 

So  in  thy  prescient  breast 
Are  lyre-strings  quivering  with  prophetic  thrill 
To  the  low  footstep  of  each  coming  ill ; 

— Oh !  canst  Tlu>u  dream  of  rest* 

Bear  up  thy  dream  !  thou  mighty  and  thou  weak! 
Heart,  strong  as  death,  yet  as  a  reed  to  break, 
As  a  flame,  tempest-sway'd  1 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


21T 


He  that  sits  calm  on  lii.Hi  is  yet  the  source 
Whence  thy  soul's  current  hnth  its  troubled  course. 
He  that  tin-ai  deep  hath  made  1 

Win  He  not  pity? — He  whose  searching  eye 
K<  ads  all  the  secrets  of  thine  agony  ? — 

Oh  !  pray  to  be  forgiven 
Thy  fond  idolatry,  thy  blind  excess. 
And  seek  with  Him  that  bovver  of  blessedu 

Love  I  ilnj  sole  home  is  heaven  1 


BOOKS  AND  FLOWER& 


La  vue  d'  une  StweafMM  mon  imagination,  et  flatte 
nee  sens  a  tin  point  ine.vprimable.  Sons  le  tranquiJIe 
abri  du  toil  piiternel,  jYt.ns  nourrie  des  I'enfuncu  avec 
deH  fleurs  et  des  livres  ; — ilans  I'etmite  enceinte  d'une  pri- 
lon.  au  milieu  des  t'rrs  itnposies  pnr  la  tyrannie,  j'oublie 
('injustice  des  hommes,  leurs  soiiises  et  mes  maux  avec 
do  livres  et  des  fleurs. Madame  Roland. 


COME,  let  me  make  a  sunny  realm  around  thee, 
Of  thought  and  beauty!    Here  are  books  and 

flowers, 
With  spells  to  loose  the  fetter  which  hath  bound 

thee, 
The  ravell'd  coil  of  this  world's  feverish  hour* 

The  soul  of  song  is  in  these  deathless  pages, 
Even  as  the  odour  in  the  flower  enshrined: 

Here  thecrown'd  spirits  of  departed  ages 
Have  left  the  silent  melodies  of  mind. 

Their  thoughts,  that  strove  with  time,  and  change, 

and  nngiiieh, 
For  some  high  place  where  faith  her  wing  might 

rect, 

Are  burning  here;  a  flame  that  may  not  languish. 
Still  pointing  upward  to  that  bright  hill's  crest  i 

Their  grief,  the  veil'd  infinity  exploring 

For  treasures  lost,  is  here;— their  boundless  love 

Its  mighty  streams  of  gentleness  outpouring 
On  all  things  round,  and  clasping  all  above. 

And  the  bright  beings,  their  own  heart's  creations, 
Bright,  yet  all  human,  here  are  breathing  still; 

Conflicts,  and  agonies,  and  exultations 
Are  here,  and  victories  of  prevailing  will  I 

Listen,  oh !  listen,  let  their  high  words  cheer  thee  1 
Their  swan-like  music  ringing  through  all  woes. 

Let  my  voice  bring  their  holy  influence  near  thee, 
The  Elysian  air  of  their  divine  repose  ! 

Of  wouldst  thou  turn  to  earth  ?  Jfot  earth  all  fur- 
row'd 

By  the  old  traces  of  man's  toil  and  care, 
But  the  green  peaceful  world  that  never  sorrow'd, 

The  world  of  leaves,  and  dews,  and  summer  air) 

Look  on  these  flowers  1  As  o'er  an  altar  shedding 
O'er  Milton's  page,  soft  light  from  colour'd  urns  I 

They  are  the  links,  man's  heart  to  nature  wedding. 
When  to  her  breast  the  prodigal  returns. 

They  are  from  lone  wild  places,  forest  dinglea, 
Fresh  banks  of  many  a  low- voiced  hidden  stream, 

Where  the  sweet  star  of  eve  looks  down  and  min 

gles 
Faint  lustre  with  the  water-lily's  gleam. 

They  are  from  where  the  soft  winds  play  in  glad- 
ness. 

Covering  the  turf  with  flowery  blossom-showers  • 
—Too  richly  dower'd,  O  friend !  are  we  for  sadness, 

Look  on  an  empire— mind  and  nature — ours  I 


FOR  A  PICTURE  OF  ST.  CECILIA  ATTENDED 
BY  ANGELS. 


How  rich  that  forehead's  calm  expamt 
How  bright  that  heaven-directed  glanttl 
— Waft  her  lo  glory,  winged  power*, 

Ere  sorrow  be  renew'd. 
And  intercourse  wilh  mortal  noun 
Bring  back  an  humbler  mood ! 

tTordneorth. 


How  run  that  eye,  with  insph.ition  beaming, 
Wear  yet  so  deep  a  calm  ?— Oh.  child  of  song ! 

Is  not  the  music-land  a  world  of  dreaming. 
Where  forms  of  sad  bewildering  beauty  throng  J 

Math  it  not  sounds  from  voices  long  departed  ? 

Echoes  of  tones  that  rung  in  childhood's  ear? 
Low  haunting  whispers,  which  the  weary-hearted, 

Stealing'midst  crowds  away,  have  wept  to  hear? 

No,  not  to  thee!— thy  spirit,  meek,  yet  queenly. 
On  its  own  starry  height,  beyond  all  this. 


gh  songs  of 


Floating  triumphantly  and  yet  serenely, 
Breathes  no  faint  tinder-tone  through 


bliss! 


Say  by  what  strain,  through  cloudless  ether  swell- 
ing. 
Thou  hast  drawn  down  those  wanderers  from 

the  skies  ? 
Bright  guests!  even  such  as  left  of  yore  their 

dwelling, 
For  the  deep  cedar  shades  of  Paradise  1 

What  strain? — oh!  not  the  Nightingale's  when 
showering 

Her  own  heart's  life  drops  on  the  burning  lay, 
mit'  stirs  the  young  woods  in  the  days  of  flowering, 

Anrl  pours  her  strength,  but  not  her  grief  away: 

And  not  the  Exile's — when  'midst  lonely  billow* 
He  wakes  the  Alpine  notes  his  mother  sung. 

Or  blends  them  with  the  sigh  of  alien  willows, 
Where,  murmuring  to  the  wind,  his  harp  is  hung. 

And  not  the  Pilgrim's — though  his  thoughts  be  holy. 
And  sweet  his  Ave  song,  when  day  grows  dim, 

Yet  as  he  journeys,  pensively  and  slowly, 
Something  of  sadness  floats  thro'  that  low  hymn. 

But  thou  !— the  spirit  which  at  eve  is  filling 
All  the  hush'd  air  and  reverential  sky. 

Founts,  leaves,  and  flowers,  with  solemn  rapture 

thrilling. 
This  is  the  soul  of  thy  rich  harmony. 

This  bears  up  high  those  breathings  of  devotion 
Wnerein  the  currents  of  thy  heart  gush  free 

Therefore  no  world  of  sad  and  vain  emotion 
Is  the  dream-haunted  music  land  for  thee. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WAVES. 


WRITTEN  HEAR  THE  SCENE  OF  A  RECENT  BIIIPWR  Sf  X, 


How  perfect  wu  the  calm !  It  wemM  no  deep, 
No  mood,  which  Mann  takej  awajr  or  bringt 

I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  deep 
Wai  even  the  gentlMt  of  all  gentle  thing*. 

But  welcome  fortitude  and  patient  cheer, 
And  frequent  lighti  of  what  U  to  be  borne  I 

Woriruxrt*. 


ANSWER,  ye  chiming  waves! 

That  now  in  sunshine  sweep; 
Speak  to  me  from  thy  hidden  cave«, 

Voice  of  the  solemn  dee.nl 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Hath  man's  lone  spirit  here 

With  storms  in  battle  striven  ? 
Where  all  is  now  so  calmly  clear, 

Hath  anguish  cried  to  heaven  1 

•—Then  the  sea's  voice  arose. 
Like  an  earthquake's  under-tone: 

M  Mortal,  the  strife  of  human  woea 
Where  hath  not  nature  known  1 

"  Here  to  the  quivering  mast 

Despair  hath  wildly  dung, 
The  shriek  upon  the  wind  hath  past, 

The  midnight  sky  hath  rung. 

"And  the  youthful  and  the  brave 

With  their  beauty  and  renown, 
To  the  hollow  chambers  of  the  wave 

In  darkness  have  gone  down. 

"  They  are  vanish'd  from  their  place — 
Let  their  homes  and  hearths  make  moan 

But  the  rolling  waters  keep  no  trace 
Of  pang  or  conflict  gone." 

— Alasl  thou  haughty  deep! 

The  strong,  the  sounding  far! 
My  heart  before  thee  dies, — I  weep 

To  think  on  what  we  are  I 

To  think  that  so  we  pass. 
High  hope,  and  thought,  and  mind, 

Ev'n  as  the  breath-stain  from  the  glass, 
Leaving  no  sign  behind  I 

Saw'st  thou  naught  else,  thou  main  ? 

Thou  and  the  midnight  sky  t 
Naught  save  the  struggle,  brief  and  vain, 

The  parting  agony  ? 

—And  the  sea's  voice  replied, 

"  Here  nobler  things  have  been ! 
Power  with  the  valiant  when  they  died, 

To  sanctify  the  scene : 

"Courage,  in  fragile  form. 

Faith,  trusting  to  the  last, 
Prayer,  breathing  heavenwards  thro*  the  storm, 

But  all  alike  have  pass'd." 

Sound  on,  thou  haughty  seal 

These  have  not  pass'd  in  vain  ; 
My  soul  awakes,  my  hope  springs  free 

On  victor  wings  again. 

TTiov.,  from  thine  empire  driven, 

May'st  vanish  with  thy  powers; 
But,  by  the  hearts  that  here  have  striven, 

A  loftier  doom  is  ours  I 


THE  HAUNTED  HOUSE. 


I  nan  like  on* 
Who  treadi  alone 

Some  banquet-hall  tavtod, 
WboM  lighti  are  fled, 
Whote  garlandi  dead, 

And  all  bat  me  deputed. 


SEEST  thou  yon  gray  gleaming  hall, 
Where  the  deep  elm-shadows  fall  1 
Voices  that  have  left  the  earth 

.  Long  ago. 
Still  are  murmuring  round  its  hearth, 

Soft  and  low: 
Ever  there ;  yet  one  alone 
Hath  the  gift  to  hear  their  tone. 

Guests  come  thither,  and  depart. 
Free  of  step,  and  light  of  heart ; 
Children  with  sweet  visions  bless'd, 
IB  the  haunted  chambers  rest ; 


One  alone  unslumberine  lies 
When  the  night  hath  seal'd  all  eyes. 
One  quick  heart  and  watchful  ear. 
Listening  fur  those  whispers  clear. 

Seest  thou  where  the  woodbine  flower* 
O'er  yon  low  porch  hang  in  showers? 
Startling  fanes  of  the  dead. 

Pale,  yet  sweet, 
One  lone  woman's  entering  tread 

There  still  meet ! 

Some  with  young  smooth  foreheads  fair, 
Faintly  shining  through  bright  hair; 
Some  with  reverend  locks  of  snow — 
All,  all  buried  long  ago! 

All,  from  under  deep  sea-waves, 

Or  the  flowers  of  foreign  graves, 

Or  the  old  and  banner'd  aisle, 

Where  their  high  tombs  gleam  the  while 

Rising,  wandering,  floating  by, 

Suddenly  and  silently. 

Through  their  earthly  home  and  place, 

But  amidst  another  race. 

Wherefore,  unto  one  alone, 

Are  those  sounds  and  visions  known  ? 

Wherefore  hath  that  spell  of  power 

Dark  and  dread, 
On  her  soul,  a  baleful  dower. 

Thus  been  shed  ? 
Oh!  in  those  deep-seeing  eyes. 
No  strange  gift  of  mystery  lies 
She  is  lone  where  once  she  moved. 
Fair,  and  happy,  and  beloved! 

Sunny  smiles  were  glancing  round  her. 
Tendrils  of  kind  hearts  had  bound  her  , 
Now  those  silver  chords  are  broken, 
Those  bright  looks  have  left  no  token; 
Not  one  trace  on  all  the  earth. 
Save  her  memory  of  their  mirth. 

She  is  lone  and  lingering  now. 
Dreams  have  gather'd  o'er  her  brow, 
'Midst  gay  songs  and  children's  play, 
She  is  dwelling  far  away ; 
Seeing  vhat  none  else  may  see — 
Haur.Md  *ti!l  her  place  must  be  I 


O'CONNOR'S   CHILD. 


J>  if  piece  was  suggested  by  a  picture  in  the  possw- 
li<M  jf  MM.  Lawrence,  of  Wavertres  Hall. — It  repre- 
tertsthe  "Hero's  Child"  of  Campbell's  Poem,  seated 
beside  a  solitary  tomb  of  rock,  marked  with  a  cross,  in 
a  wild  and  desert  place.  A  tempest  seems  gathering  in  the 
angry  skies  above  her,  but  the  attitude  of  the  drooping 
figure  expresses  the  utter  carelessness  of  desolation,  and 
the  countenance  speaks  of  entire  abstraction  from  all 
external  objects. — A  bow  and  quiver  lie  beside  her 
amongst  the  weeds  and  wild  flowers  of  the  desert. 


I  fled  the  home  of  grief 
At  ConnocV  Morant  tomb  to  fall, 
I  found  the  helmet  of  my  Chief, 

Bii  bow  still  hanging  on  our  wafi , 

Am  took  it  down,  and  vow'd  to  rare 

Tbii  desert  place,  a  huntress  bold ; 

{for  would  I  change  my  buried  lore 

For  any  heart  of  tiring  mould. 

Comptttt. 

T»»  sleep  of  storms  is  dark  upon  the  skies. 
The  weight  of  omens  heavy  in  the  cloud  :— 

Bid  the  lorn  huntress  of  the  desert  rise. 
And  gird  the  form  whose  beauty  grief  hath  bow'4. 

And  leave  *he  tomb,  as  tombs  are  left— alone. 

To  the  star's  vigil,  and  ths  wind's  wild  moan. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


219 


Tell  her  of  revelries  in  bower  and  hall, 

Where  getna  are  glittering,  and  bright  wine  ii 

pour'd ; 

Where  to  glad  measures  chiming  footsteps  fall, 
And  soul  seems  gushing  from  the  harp'i  full 

chord ; 

And  richer  flowers  amid  fair  tresses  wave, 
Than  the  sad  "  Love  lie*  bleeding"  of  the  grave. 

Oh!  little  know'st  thou  of  the  o'ermastering  spell, 
Wherewith  love  binds  the  spirit  strong  in  pain. 

To  the  spot  hallow'd  by  a  wild  farewell, 
A  parting  agony, — intense,  yet  vuin, 

A  look — and  darkness  when  its  gleam  hath  flown, 

A  voice— and  silence  when  its  words  are  gone  I 

She  hears  thee  not ;  her  full,  deep,  fervent  heart 
la  set  in  her  dark  eyes; — and  they  are  bound 

Unto  that  cross,  that  shrine,  that  world  apnrt. 
Where  faithful  love  hath  sanctified  the  ground  ; 

And  love  with  death  striven   long  by  tear  and 
prayer, 

And  anguish  frozen  into  still  despair. 

Yet  on  her  spirit  hath  arisen  at  last 
A  light,  a  joy,  of  its  own  wanderings  born  ; 

Around  her  path  a  vision's  glow  is  cast, 
Back,  back,  her  lost  one  comes,  in  hues  of  morn!* 

For  her  the  gulf  is  fill'd— the  dark  night  fled ; 

Whose  mystery  parts  the  living  and  the  dead. 

And  she  can  pour  forth  in  such  converse  high, 
All  her  souls  tide  of  love,  the  deep,  the  strong, 

Oh  I  lonelier  far,  perchance,  thy  destiny, 
And  more  forlorn,  amidst  the  world's  gay  throng 

Than  her's — the  queen  of  that  majestic  gloom, 

The  tempest,  and  the  desert,  and  the  tomb  I 


BRIGAND  LEADER  AND  HIS  WIFE. 


SUGGESTED    BY   A   PICTURE    OF  EASTLAKE'8 


DARK  chieftain  of  the  heath  and  height! 
Wild  feaster  on  the  hills  by  night ! 
Seest  thou  the  stormy  sunset's  glow 
Flung  back  by  glancing  spears  below? 
Now  for  one  strife  of  stern  despair! 
The  foe  hath  track'd  thee  to  thy  lair. 

Thou,  against  whom  the  voice  of  blood 
Hath  risen  from  rock  and  lonely  wood  ; 
And  in  whose  dreams  a  moan  should  be, 
Not  of  the  water,  nor  the  tree  ; 
Haply  thine  own  last  hour  is  nigh, — 
Yet  shalt  thou  not  forsaken  die. 

There's  one  that  pale  beside  thee  stands, 
More  true  than  all  thy  mountain  bands! 
She  will  not  shrink  in  doubt  and  dread, 
When  the  balls  whistle  round  thy  head: 
Nor  leave  thee,  though  thy  closing  eye 
No  longer  may  to  her's  reply 

Oh  I  many  a  soft  and  quiet  grace 
Hath  faded  from  her  form  and  face ; 
And  many  a  thought,  the  fitting  guest 
Of  woman's  meek  religious  breast, 
Hath  perish'd  in  her  wanderings  wide. 
Through  the  deep  forests,  by  thy  side. 

Yet,  mournfully  surviving  all, 

A  flower  upon  a  ruin's  wall, 

A  friendless  thing  whose  lot  is  cast. 

Of  lovely  ones  to  be  the  last ; 

Sad,  but  unchanged  through  good  and  til, 

Thino  is  her  lone  devotion  still. 


"A  son  of  light,  a  lovely  form, 
He  comc»,  and  mxke»  her  glad." 


Camotaf 


And  oh '  not  wholly  lost  the  heart 
Where  that  undying  love  hath  part ; 
Not  worthless  all,  though  far  and  long 
From  home  estranged,  and  guided  wrong ; 
Yet  may  its  depths  by  heaven  be  stirr'd, 
Its  prayer  for  thee  be  pour'd  and  heard  I 


CHILD'S  RETURN  FROM  THE  WOODLAND& 


All  good  and  guiltless  as  thou  art, 

Some  transient  grief)  will  toucb  thy  heart— 

Griefs  that  along  thy  alter'd  face 

Will  breathe  a  more  subduing  grace, 

Thau  even  those  look:  of  joy  that  lie 

On  the  loft  cheek  of  infancy. 

Wilton. 


HAST  thou  been  in  the  woods  with  the  honey-bee ! 
Hast  thou  been  with  the  Iamb  in  the  pastures  free? 
With  the  hare  thro'  the  copses  and  dingles  wild  ? 
With  the  butterfly  over  the  heath,  fair  child  ? 
Yes:  the  light  fall  of  thy  bounding  feet 
Hath  not  startled  the  wren  from  her  mossy  seat; 
Yet  hast  thou  ranged  the  green  forest-dells 
And  brought  back  a  treasure  of  buds  and  bells. 

Thou  know'st  not  the  sweetness,  by  antique  song 
Breathed  o'er  the  names  of  that  flowery  throng  ; 
The  woodbine,  the  primrose,  the  violet  dim. 
The  lily  that  gleams  by  the  fountain's  brim ; 
These  are  old  words,  that  have  made  each  grove 
A  dreaming  haunt  for  romance  and  love ; 
Each  sunny  bank,  where  faint  odours  lie, 
A  place  for  the  gushings  of  poesy. 

Thou  know'st  not  the  light  wherewith  fairy  lore 
Sprinkles  the  turf  and  the  daisies  o'er; 
Enough  for  thee  are  the  dews  that  sleep, 
Like  hidden  gems,  in  the  flower-urns  deep; 
Enough  the  rich  crimson  spots  that  dwell 
'Midst  the  gold  of  the  cowslip's  perfumed  cell ; 
And  the  scent  by  the  blossoming  sweet-briers  shed. 
And  the  beauty  that  bows  the  wood-hyacinth's 
head. 

Oh!  happy  child,  in  thy  fawn-like  glee! 
What  is  remembrance  or  thought  to  thee? 
Fill  thy  bright  locks  with  those  gifts  of  spring. 
O'er  thy  green  pathway  their  colours  fling' 
Bind  them  in  chaplet  and  wild  festoon — 
What  if  to  droop  and  to  perish  soon  ? 
Nature  hath  mines  of  such  wealth— and  thou 
Never  wilt  prize  its  delights  as  now  ! 

For  a  day  is  coming  to  quell  the  tone 

That  rings  in  thy  laughter.  Ihou  joyous  one  I 

And  to  dim  thy  brow  with  a  touch  of  care. 

Under  the  gloss  of  its  clustering  hair  ; 

And  to  tame  the;  flash  of  thy  cloudless  eyes 

Into  the  stillness  of  nutiini'i  skies  ; 

And  to  teach  thee  that  grief  hath  her  needful  part, 

'Midst  the  hidden  things  of  each  human  heart. 

Yet  shall  we  mourn,  gentle  child!  for  this? 
Life  hath  enough  of  yet  holier  bliss  ! 
Such  be  thy  portion  ! — the  hliss  to  look. 
With  a  reverent  spirit,  through  nature's  book 
By  fount,  by  forest,  hv  river's  line, 
To  track  the  paths  of  a  love  divine ; 
To  read  its  deep  meanings — tr>  SPP  and  hear 
God  in  earth's  garden — and  not  to  lean 


THE  FAITH  OF  LOVE. 


THOD  hast  watch'd  beside  the  bed  of  deattl, 

Oh  fearless  human  love! 
Thy  lip  received  the  last  faint  breath 

Ere  the  spirit  fled  above. 


220 


1IEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thy  prayer  was  heard  by  the  parting  bier, 

In  a  low  and  a  farewell  tone, 
Thou  hast  given  the  grave  both  flower  and  leaf — 

— Oh  love !  thy  task  is  done. 

Then  turn  thee  from  each  pleasant  spot 

Where  thou  wert  wont  to  rove, 
For  there  the  friend  of  thy  soul  is  not. 

Nor  the  joy  of  thy  youth,  oh  love  I 

Thou  wilt  meet  but  mournful  memory  there, 
Her  dreams  in  the  prove  she  weaves, 

With  echoes  tilling  the  summer  air. 
With  sighs  the  trembling  leaves. 

Then  turn  thee  to  the  world  again, 

From  those  dim  haunted  bowers. 
And  shut  thine  enr  to  the  wild  sweet  strain 

That  tells  of  vanish'd  hours. 

And  wear  not  on  thine  aching  heart 

The  image  of  the  dead, 
For  the  tie  is  rent  that  cave  thee  part 

In  the  gladness  its  beauty  shed. 

And  gaze  on  the  pictured  smile  no  more 

That  thus  can  life  outlast, 
All  between  parted  souls  is  o'er; — 

— Love !  love  !  forget  the  past  1 

"Voice  of  vain  boding!  away,  be  still  I 

Strive  not  against  the  faith 
That  yet  my  bosom  with  light  can  fill, 

Unquench'd,  and  undimm'd  by  death  : 

"  From  the  pictured  smile  1  will  not  turn. 

Though  sadly  now  it  shine; 
Nor  quit  the  shades  that  in  whispers  mourn 

For  the  step  once  link'd  with  mine: 

"  Nor  shut  mine  ear  to  the  song  of  old 

Though  its  notes  the  pang  renew, 
—Such  memories  deep  in  my  heart  I  houl, 

To  keep  it  pure  and  true. 

14  By  the  holy  instinct  of  my  heart. 

By  the  hope  that  bears  me  on, 
I  have  still  my  own  undying  part 

In  the  deep  affection  gone. 

"  By  the  presence  that  about  me  seems 

Through  night  and  day  to  dwell. 
Voice  or  vain  bodings  and  fearful  dreams! 

— I  have  breathed  no  last  farewell  1" 


THE  SISTER'S  DREAM. 


Suggested  by  a  picture,  in  which  a  young  girl  is  re- 
presented as  sleeping,  and  visited  during  her  slumbers  by 
UHJ  spirits  of  her  departed  sisters 


SHE  sleeps!— but  not  the  free  and  sunny  sleep 

That  lightly  oti  the  brow  of  childhood  lies: 

,  Though  happy  be  her  real,  and  soft,  and  deep, 

Yet,  ere  it  sunk  upon  her  shadow'd  eyes, 
Thoughts  of  past  scenes  and  kindred  graves  o'er- 

swept 

Hur  soul's  me«k  stillness:— she   had  pray'd  and 
wept. 

ml  now  in  visions  to  her  couch  they  come, 

The  early  lost— the  beautiful — the  dead — 

That  unto  her  bequeath'd  a  mournful  home, 

Whence  with  their  voices  all  sweet  laughter  fled ; 
They  rise— the  sisters  of  lier  youth  arise. 
As  from  the  world  where  no  frail  blossom  dies. 

And  well  the  sleeper  knows  them  not  of  earth — 
Not  as  they  were  when  binding  up  the  flowers, 

Telling  wild  legends  round  the  winter-hearth, 
Braiding  their  long  fair  hair  for  festal  hours; 

These  things  are  past;— a  spiritual  gleam, 

A  solemn  glory,  robes  them  in  that  dream. 


Yet,  if  the  glee  of  life's  fresh  budding  years 
In  those  pure  aspects  may  no  more  be  read, 

Thence,  too,  hath  sorrow  melted,— and  the  tear* 
Which  o'er  their  mother's  holy  dust  they  shed, 
re  all  effaced  ;  there  earth  hath  left  no  sign 

Save  its  deep  love,  still  touching  every  line. 

But  oh  t  more  soft,  more  tender,  breathing  moie 
A  thought  of  pity,  than  in  vanish'd  days: 

While  hovering  silently  and  brightly  o'er 
The  lone  one's  head,  they  meet  her  spirit's  gaa« 

With  their  immortal  eyes,  that  seem  to  say, 

"  Yet,  sister,  yet  we  love  thee,  come  away  !" 

'Twill  fade,  the  radiant  dream  !  and  will  she  not 
Wake  with  more  painful  yearning  at  her  heart? 

Will  not  her  home  seem  yet  a  lonelier  spot, 
Her  task  more  sad,  when  those  bright  shadows 
part? 

And  the  green  summer  after  them  look  dim. 

And  sorrow's  tone  be  in  the  bird's  wild  hymn  ? 

But  let  her  hope  be  strong,  and  let  the  dead 
Visit  her  soul  in  heaven's  calm  beauty  still, 

Be  their  names  utter'd,  be  their  memory  spread 
Yet  round  the  place  they  never  more  may  (ill  I 

All  is  not  over  with  earth's  broken  tie — 

Where,  where  should  sisters  love,  if  not  on  high? 


WRITTEN    AFTER    VISITING    A    TOMB, 

.Year  Woodstock,  in  the  County  of  Kilkenny. 


Y«  !  bide  beneath  (he  mouldering  heap, 

The  undelighliog,  slighted  tbiog  ; 
There,  in  the  cold  earth,  buried  deep, 

In  lilenee  let  it  wait  the  spring. 

Mr •.  Ttghe'i  Poem  an  (Ac  Lay. 


I  STOOD  where  the  lip  of  song  lay  low, 
Where  the  dust  had  gather'd  on  beauty's  brow; 
Where  stillness  hung  on  the  heart  of  love. 
And  a  marble  weeper  kept  watch  above. 

I  stood  in  the  silence  of  lonely  thought, 
Of  deep  affections  that  inly  wrought. 
Troubled,  and  dreamy,  and  dim  with  fear — 
— They  knew  themselves  exiled  spirits  here! 

Then  didst  than  pass  me  in  radiance  by, 
Child  of  the  sunbeam,  bright  butterfly  1 

hou  that  dost  bear  on  thy  fairy  wings, 
No  burden  of  mortal  sufferings ! 

Thou  wert  flitting  past  that  solemn  tomb, 
Over  a  bright  world  of  joy  and  bloom, 
And  strangely  I  felt,  as  I  saw  thee  shine, 
The  all  that  sever'd  thy  life  and  mine. 

Mine,  with  its  inborn  mysterious  things. 

Of  love  and  grief,  its  unfathom'd  springs. 

And  quick  thoughts  wandering  o'er  earth  and  sky, 

With  voices  to  question  eternity! 

Thine,  in  its  reckless  and  joyous  way, 
Like  an  embodied  breeze  at  play  ! 
Child  of  the  sunlight !— thou  winged  and  free1 
One  moment,  one  moment,  I  envied  thee! 

Thou  art  not  lonely,  though  born  to  roam, 
Thou  hast  no  longings  that  pine  for  home, 
Thou  seek'st  not  the  haunts  of  the  b»e  and  bird. 
To  fly  from  the  sickness  of  hope  deferr'd  : 

In  thy  brief  being,  no  strife  of  mind, 
No  boundless  passion  is  deeply  shrined  ; 
While  I— as  1  gazed  on  thy  swift  flight  by. 
One  hour  of  my  soul  seein'd  infinity! 

And  she,  that  voiceless  below  me  slept, 
Flow'd  not  h»r  song  from  a  hpart  that  wept? 
—  O  love  and  song,  thoush  of  heaven  your  powers. 
Dark  is  your  fate  in  this  world  of  ours! 

Yet.  ere  I  turn'd  from  that  silent  p!ace. 
Or  ceased  from  watching  thy  sunny  race, 
Thou,  even  thou.  on  those  glancing  wings, 
Didst  waft  me  visions  of  brighter  things  1 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


221 


Thou,  that  dost  image  the  freed  soul's  birth, 
And  its  flight  away  o'er  the  mists  of  earth. 
Oh!  fitly  thy  path  is  through  flowers  that  rise 
Round  the  dark  chamber  where  genius  lies  I 


PROLOGUE  TO  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  FIESCO. 

As  translated  from  the  Geiman  of  Schiller,  by  Colonel 
D'Aguilnr,  and  performed  at  Ihe  Theatre  Royal,  Dublin, 
December,  1832. 

Too  long  apart,  a  bright  but  sever'd  band, 
The  mighty  minstrels  of  the  Rhine's  fair  land. 
Majestic  strains,  bin  not  for  us,  had  sung, — 
Moulding  to  melody  a  stranger  tongue. 
Brave  hearts   leap'd   proudly  to  their   words   of 

power. 

As  a  true  sword  bounds  forth  in  battle's  hour! 
Fa i r  eyes  rain 'd  homage  o'er  the  impassion'd  lays, 
In  loving  tears,  more  eloquent  than  praise; 
While  wo,  far  distant,  knew  not,   dream'd   not 

aught 

Of  the  high  marvels  by  that  magic  wrought. 
But  let  the  harriers  of  the  sea  give  way. 
When  mind  sweeps  onward  with  a  conqueror's 

sway  ! 

And  let  the  Rhine  divide  high  souls  no  more 
From  minglinjr  on  its  old  heroic  shore, 
Which,  e'en  like  ours,  brave  deeds  through  many 

an  age. 
Have  made  the  Poet's  own  free  heritage! 

To  us.  though  faintly,  may  a  wandering  tone 
Of  the  far  minstrelsy  at  last  be  known  ; 
Sounds  which  the  thrilling  pulse,  the  burningtear, 
Have  sprung  to  greet,  must  not  be  strangers  here 
And  if  hv  one,  more  used,  on  march  and  heath 
To  the  shrill  bugle,  than  the  muse's  breath. 
With  a  warm  heart  the  offering  hath  been  brought, 
And  in  a  trusting  loyalty  of  thought, — 
So  let  it  be  received! — a  Soldier's  hand 
Bears  to  the  breast  of  no  ungenerous  lind 
A  seed  of  foreign  shores.    O'er  this  fair  clime. 
Since  Tara  heard  the  harp  of  ancient  time, 
Hath  song  held  empire ;  then  if  not  with  Fame, 
Let  the  green  isle  with  kindness  bless  his  aim, 
The  joy,  the  power,  of  kindred  song  to  spread, 
Where  once  that  harp  "  the  soul  of  music  shed  1" 


A  FAREWELL  TO  ABBOTSFORD. 


These  lines  were  given  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  at  the 
fate  of  Abbotsford,  in  the  summer  of  1823.  He  was 
then  apparently  in  ihe  vigour  of  an  existence  whose 
energies  promised  long  continuance;  and  the  glance  of 
his  quick,  smiling  eye,  and  the  very  sound  of  his  kindly 
v»icp,  seemed  to  kindle  the  gladness  of  his  own  gunny 
and  benignant  spirit  in  all  who  had  the  happiness  of  ap- 

ruaching  him. 


HOME  of  the  gifted !  fare  thee  well, 

And  a  blessing  on  thee  rest; 
While  the  heather  waves  its  purple  bell 

O'er  mnor  and  mountain  crust ; 
While  stream  to  stream  around  thee  calls, 

And  braes  with  broom  are  drest. 
Glad  be  the  harping  in  thy  halls  — 

A  blessing  on  thee  rest  I 

WhilK  the  high  voice  from  thee  sent  forth, 

Bills  rock  and  cairn  reply, 
Wakening  the  spirits  of  the  North, 

Like  a  chieftain's  gathering  cry  ; 
While  its  deep  master-tones  hold  sway, 

As  a  king's  o'er  every  breast. 
Home  of  the  Legend  and  the  Lay! 

A  blessing  on  thee  rest. 


Joy  to  thy  hearth,  and  board,  and  bower! 

Long  honours  to  thy  line  ! 
And  hearts  of  proof,  and  hands  of  power, 

And  bright  names  worthy  thine! 
By  the  merry  step  of  childhood  still 

May  thy  free  sward  be  prest! 
— While  one  proud  pulse  in  the  land  can  thrill, 

A  blessing  on  thee  rest ' 


SCENE  IN  A  DALECARL1AN  MINE, 


"  Oh !  fondly,  fervently,  those  two  had  loved, 
Had  mingled  mill-Is  in  Love's  own  perfect  trust  I 
Had  watch'd  bright  sunsets,  dreamt  of  blissful  w»r§  t 
And  thus  they  met. 


"  HASTE,  with  your  torches,  haste!  make  firelight 

round  !" 
—They  speed,  they  press — what  hath  the   minei 

found  ? 

Relic  or  treasure,  giant  sword  of  old? 
Gems  bedded  deep,  rich  veins  of  burning  gold  ? 
— Not  so— the  dead,   the   dead!    An   awe-struck 

band, 

In  silence  gathering  round  the  silent  stand, 
Chain'd  l>y  one  feeling,  hushing  e'en  their  breath 
Before  the  thing  that,  in  the  might  of  death, 
Fearful,  yet  beautiful,  amidst  them  lay — 
A  sleeper,  dreaming  not ! — a  youth  with  hair 
Making  a  sunny  gleam  (how  sadly  fair!) 
O'er  his  cold  brow  :  no  shadow  of  decay 
Had  touch'd   those   pain  bright  features — yet   h* 

wore 

A  mien  of  other  days,  a  garb  of  yore. 
Who  could  unfold  that  mystery  ?  From  the  throng 
A  woman  wildly  broke  ;  her  eye  was  dim, 
As  if  through  many  tears,  through  vigils  long. 
Through  weary  strainings:— nil  had  been  for  him 
Those  two  had  loved !  And  there  he  lay,  the  dead. 
In  his  youth's  flower — and  she,  the  living,  stood 
With  her  gray  hair,  whence  hue  and  gloss  had 

fled— 

And  wasted  form,  and  cheek,  whose  flushing  Mood 
Had  long  since  ebb'd — a  meeting  sad  and  strange 
— Oh  !  are  not  meetings  iti  this  world  of  change 
Sadder  than  partings  oft  ?    She  stood  there,  still 
And  mute,  and  gazing,  all  her  soul  to  fill 
With  the  loved  face  once  more — the  young,  fair 

face, 
'Midst  that  rude  cavern  touch'd  with  sculpture's 

grace. 

By  torchlight  and  by  death  :— until  at  last 
From  her  deep  heart  the  spirit  of  the  past 
Gush'd  in  low  broken  tones: — "And  there  thon 

art! 

And  thus  we  meet,  that  loved,  and  did  but  part 
As  for  a  few  brief  hours!— My  friend,  my  friend! 
First  love,  and  only  one  !    Is  this  the  end 
Of  hope  deferr'd,  youth  blighted?    Yet  thy  brow 
^till  wears  its  own  proud  beauty,  and  thy  cheek 
Smiles — how  unchanged  ! — while  I,  the  worn,  and 

weak. 

And  faded — oh  !  thou  wouldst  but  scorn  me  now, 
If  thou  couldst  look  on  me!— a  wither'd  leaf, 
Sear'd— though  for  thy  sake— by  the  blast  of  grief  1 
Better  to  see  thee  thus !    For  lliou  didst  go, 
Bearing  my  image  on  thy  heart,  I  know, 
Unto  the  dead.     My  U.lric  !  through  the  night 
How  have  I  call'd  the*!    With  the  morning  light 
How  have   1  watch'd  for  thee!— wept,  wander'd, 

pray'd. 

Met  the  fierce  mountain  tempest,  undismay'd, 
In  search  of  thee!    Bound  my  worn  life  to  one. 
One  torturing  hope  !    Now  let  me  die!    'Tisgone. 
Take  thy  betroth'd  !" — And  on  his  breast  she  fell— 
— Oh!  since  their  youth's  last  passionate  farewell. 
How  changed  in  all  but  love  !— the  true,  the  strong. 
Joining  in  death  whom  life  had  parted  long! 
— They  had  one  grave — one  lonely  bridal  bed — 
No  friend,  no  kinsman,  there  a  tear  to  shed  ! 
His  name  had  ceased — her  heart  outlived  each  tie, 
Once  more  to  look  on  that  dead  face — and  die  I 


222 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  VICTOR. 


"De  terat  ce  qui  t'aimoit  n'est-i!  plu«  rien  qni  I' lime?" 

Lamartiru. 


MIGHTY  ones,  Love  and  Death  ! 
Ye  are  the  strong  in  this  world  rf  rns, 
Ye  meet  at  the  banquets,   ye  dwell   'midst   the 
flowers, 

—Which  hath  the  conqur.rrr's  wreath  ? 

Tluru.  art  the  victor,  Lrirc! 
Thou  art  the  fearless,  the  croivn'd,  the  free, 
The  strength  of  the  battle  IK  given  to  thee, 

The  spirit  from  abcvi! 

Thou  hast  lookM  nn  Death,  and  smiled  ! 
Thou  hast  borne  up  fie  reed-like  and  fragile  form. 
Through  the  waves  of  the  fight,  through  the  rush 
of  the  st.jrm, 

On  field,  and  tfxxl,  and  wild! 

No! — Thou  »rt  the  victor,  Death  ! 
Thou  comest,  and  where  is  that  which  spoke, 
From  the  dep'hs  of  the  eye,  when  the  spirit  woke? 

— Gone  with  the  fleeting  breath! 

Thou  comest— and  what  is  left 
Of  all  that  loved  us,  to  say  if  aught 
Yet  lanes — yet  answers  the  burning  thought 

Of  the  spirit  lone  and  reft  ? 

Silence  is  where  thou  art ! 
Silently  there  must  kindred  meet, 
No  smile  to  cheer,  and  m>  VDice  to  greet, 

No  bounding  of  heart  to  heart! 

Roast  not  thy  victory,  Death  ! 
It  is  but  an  the  cloud's  o'er  the  sunbeam's  power, 
t'  is  but  F.B  the  winter's  o'er  leaf  and  flower, 

That  slumber,  the  snow  beneath. 

It  i*  but  as  a  Tyrant's  reign 
O'er  the  voice  and  the  lip  which  lie  bids  be  still: 
But '  he  fiery  thought,  and  the  loft'y  will, 

Are  not  for  him  to  chain  ! 

They  shall  soar  his  might  above  I 
f  ••••  thus  with  the  root  whence  affection  springs 
1"V  mgh  buried,  it  is  not  of  mortal  things — 

The-*  art  the  victor,  Love  1 


GREEK  SONGS. 


I. 

THE  STORM  OF  DELPHI* 


FAR  through  the  Delphian  shades 

An  Eastern  trumpet  rung! 
And  the  startled  eagle  rush'd  on  high, 
With  a  sounding  flight  through  the  fiery  sky 
And  banners  o'or  the  shadowy  glades 

To  the  sweeping  winds  were  flung. 

Banners,  with  deep-red  gold 

All  waving,  as  a  flame, 

And  a  fitful  g'ance  from  the  bright  spear-heart 
On  the  dim  wood  paths  of  the  mountain  shed. 
And  a  peal  of  Asia's  war-notes,  told 

That  in  arms  the  Persian  came. 

He  came  with  starry  gems 

On  his  quiver  and  his  crest; 
With  starry  srems.  nt  whose  heart  the  day 
Of  the  cloudless  orient  burning  lay. 
And  they  cast,  a  fflpam  on  the  laurel-stems, 

As  onward  his  thousands  press'd. 

•  Sw  Ibe  account  cited  from  Herodotus,  in  Mitford'i  Greece 


But  a  gloom  fell  o'er  their  way, 

And  a  heavy  moan  went  by  ! 
A  moan,  yet  not  like  the  wind's  low  swell. 
When  its  voice  grows  wild  'midst  cave  and  dell 
But  a  mortal  murmur  of  dismay. 

Or  a  warrior's  dying  sigh! 

A  gloom  fell  o'er  their  way  ! 

'Twas  not  the  shadow  cast 

By  the  dark  pine-boughs,  as  they  cross'd  the  blue 
Of  tlit1  Grecian  heavens  with  their  solemn  hue; 
—The  air  was  fill'd  with  a  mightier  sway, 

—  But  on  the  spearmen  pass'd ! 


— But  they  blew  a  louder  strain. 
When  the  steep  defiles  were  pass'd  1 
And  afar  the  crown'd  Parnassus  rose, 
To  shine  through  heaven  with  his  radiant  snows 
And  in  golden  light  the  Delphian  fane 
Before  them  stood  at  last  1 

In  golden  light  it  stood, 
'Midst  the  laurels  gleaming  lone, 
For  the  Sun  God,  yet,  with  a  lovely  smile, 
O'er  its  graceful  pillars  look'c!  awhile, 
Though  the  stormy  j-hade  on  cliff  and  wood 
Grew  deep,  round  its  mountain-throne. 

And  the  Persians  irave  a  shout ! 

But  the  marble  walls  replied 
With  a  clash  of  steel,  and  a  sullen  roar 
Like  heavy  wheels  on  the  ocean-shore, 
And  a  savage  trumpet's  note  peal'd  out. 

Till  their  hearts  for  terror  died! 

On  the  armour  of  the  God, 
Then  a  viewless  hand  was  laid  ; 
There  was  helm  and  spear,  with  a  clanging  dm 
And  corslet  brought  from  the  shrine  within. 
From  the  inmost  shrine  of  the  dread  abode, 
And  before  its  front  array'd. 

And  a  sudden  silence  fell 
Through  the  dim  and  loaded  air  I 
On  the  wild  bird's  wing,  and  the  myrtle-spray, 
And  the  very  founts  in  their  silvery  way, 
With  a  weight  of  sleep  came  down  the  speii, 
Till  man  grew  breathlrss  there. 

But  the  pause  was  broken  soon  V 

'T  was  not  by  song  or  lyre  ; 
For  the  Delphian  maids  had  left  their  bowers. 
And  the  hearths  were  lone  in  the  city  towers, 
But  there  burst  a  sound  through  the  misty  noon, 

That  battle-noon  of  fire! 

It  burst  from  earth  and  heaven  I 

It  roll'd  from  crag  and  cloud ! 
For  a  moment  of  the  mountain-blast, 
With  a  thousand  stormy  voices  pass'd. 
And  the  purple  gloom  of  the  sky  was  riven, 

When  the  thunder  peal'd  aloud. 

And  the  lightnings  in  their  play 
Flash'd  forth,  like  javelins  thrown  ; 
Like  sun-darts  wins'd  from  the  silver  bow, 
They  smote  the  spear  and  tho  turban'd  brow 
And  the  bright  gems  flew  from  tl.e  crests  like  spray, 
And  the  banners  were  struck  down  I 

And  the  massy  oak-boughs  crash'd 

To  the  fire-bolt  from  on  high. 
And  the  forest  lent  its  billowy  roar, 
While  the  glorious  tempest  onward  bore, 
And  lit  the  streams,  as  they  foam'd  and  dasn'f 

With  the  fierce  rain  sweeping  by. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


223 


Then  rush'd  the  Delphian  men 

On  the  pale  and  scalter'd  host; 
Like  the  joyous  burst  ol  a  flashing  wave, 
They  rush'd  from  the  dim  Corycian  cave. 
And  the  singing  blast  o'er  wood  and  glen 

Roll'd  on,  with  the  spears  they  tost. 

There  were  cries  of  wild  dismay, 
There  were  shouts  of  warrior-glee. 
There  were  savage  sounds  of  the  tempest's  mirth, 
That  shook  the  realm  of  their  eagle-birth  ; 
Cut  the  mount  of  song,  when  they  died  away. 
Still  rose,  with  its  temple,  free! 

And  the  I'wan  swell'd  ere  long, 

lo  Piean  !  from  Ihe  fane; 
lo  Psean  !  for  the  war  array, 
On  the  crown'd  Parnassus,  riven  that  day! 
—Thou  shall  rise  as  free,  thou  mount  of  song  I 

With  thy  bounding  streams  again. 


II. 
THE  BOWL  OF  LIBERTY. 


BEFORE  the  fiery  sun, 

The  sun  that  looks  on  Greece  with  cloudless  eye, 
In  the  free  air,  and  on  the  wat-*ield  won, 
Our  fathers  crow.i'd  the  Bowl  of  Liberty. 

Amidst  the  tornbs  they  stood, 
The  tombs  of  heroes!  with  the  solemn  skies. 
And  the  wiiie  plain  around  where  patriot-blood 
Had  steep'd  the  soil  in  hues  of  sacrifice. 

They  callM  the  glorious  dead, 
In  the  stronp  faith  which  brings  the  viewless  nigh, 
And  ponr'd  rich  odours  o'er  their  battle-bed, 
And  hade  them  to  the  rite  of  Liberty. 

Tteycall'd  them  from  (he  shades, 
The  golden-fruited  shades,  where  minstrels  tell 
How  softer  light  th'  immortal  clime  pervades, 
And  music  floats  o'er  meads  of  Asphodel. 

Then  fast  the  bright-red  wine* 
Flow'd  to  their  manes  \\  lio  taught  the  world  to  die, 
And  made  the  land's  green  turf  a  living  shrine. 
Meet  for  the  wreath  HIH!  Bowl  of  Liberty. 

So  the  rejoicing  earth 

Took  from  her  vines  again  the  blood  she  gave, 
And  richer  flowers  to  deck  the  tomb  drew  birth 
From  the  free  soil  thiri  hallow'd  to  the  brave. 

We  have  the  battle-fields, 
The  tombs,  the  names,  the  blue  majestic  sky, 
We  have  the  founts  the  purple  vintage  yields; 
—When  shall  ice  crown  the  Bowl  «f  Liberty  I 


III. 
THE  VOICE  OF  SCIO. 


A  VOICE  from  Scio's  isle, 
A  voice  of  song,  :i  voice  of  old. 
Swept  far  .as  cloud  or  billow  roll'd, 

And  earth  was  hush'd  the  while. 

The  souls  of  nations  woke! 
Where  lies'the  land  whr.se  hills  among. 
That  voice  of  Victory  hath  not  rung, 

As  if  a  trumpet  spoke  ? 

To  sky,  and  sea,  and  shore 
Of  those  whose  blood,  on  Ilion's  plain, 
Swept   from  til-  rivers  to  the  main, 

A  glorious  tHle  it  bore. 


if  "ni-i  "f  Ihis  ceremony,  incien'ly  performed  in  com- 
of  li-  Mile  of  Fla'aea,  «e«  Potter1!  jlntiquititi  of 
.  p.  3-9. 


Still  by  our  sun-bright  deep, 
With  all  the  fame  that  fiery  lay 
Threw  round  them,  in  its  rushing  way, 

The  sons  of  battle  sleep. 

And  kings  their  turf  have  crown'd! 
And  pilgrims  o'er  the  foaming  wave 
Brought  garlands  there:  so  rest  the  brave, 

Who  thus  their  bard  have  found1 

A  voice  from  Scio's  isle, 
A  voice  as  deep  hath  risen  again! 
As  far  shall  peal  its  thrilling  strain, 

Where'er  our  sun  may  smile  I 

Let  not  its  tones  expire  ! 
Such  power  to  waken  earth  and  heaven. 
And  might  and  vengeance  ne'er  was  given 

To  mortal  song  or  lyre  I 

Know  ye  not  whence  it  comes? 
— From  ruin'd  hearths,  from  burning  fanes. 
From  kindred  blood  on  yon  red  plains, 

From  desolated  homes! 

"I'is  with  us  through  the  night ! 
'Tis  on  our  hills,  'tis  in  our  sky — 
Hear  it.  ye  heavens!  when  swords  flash  high, 

O'er  the  mid-waves  of  fight ! 


TV. 

THE  URN   AND  SWORD. 


THEY  sought  for  treasures  in  the  tomb, 
Where  gentler  hands  were  wont  to  spread 
Fresh  boughs  and  flowers  of  purple  bloom. 
And  sunny  ringlets,  for  the  dead.* 

They  scatter'd  far  the  greensward-heap. 
Where  once  those  hands  the  bright  wine  pour'd 
— What  found  they  in  the  home  of  sleep? 
—A  mouldering  urn,  a  shiver'd  sword  I 

An  urn,  which  held  the  dust  of  one 
Who  died  when  hearths  and  shrines  were  free; 
A  sword,  whose  work  was  proudly  done, 
Between  our  mountains  and  the  sea. 

And  these  are  treasures! — undismay'd, 
Still  tor  the  suffering  land  we  trust, 
Wherein  the  past  its  fame  hath  laid, 
With  freedom  s  sword,  and  valour's  dust. 


V. 
THE  MYRTLE-BOUGH. 


STILL  green  along  our  sunny  shore 

The  flowering  myrtle  waves. 
As  when  its  fragrant  boughs  of  yore 

Were  oftor'd  on  the  graves  ; 
The  graves,  wherein  our  mighty  men 
Had  rest,  unviolated  then. 

Still  green  it  waves  !  as  when  the  hearth 
Was  sacred  through  the  land  ; 

And  fearless  was  the  banquet's  mirth, 
And  free  the  minstrel's  hand; 

And  guests,  with  shining  myrtle  crown'd. 

Sent  the  wreath'd  lyre  and  wine-cup  round 

Still  green  !  as  when  on  holy  ground 
The  tyrant's  blood  was  pour'd: 

— Forget  ye  not  what  garlands  bound 
The  young  deliverer  s  sword  I 

Though  earth  may  shroud  Itarmodius  now, 

We  still  have  sword  and  myrtle-bough1 

•  See  Potter'i  Grecian  Aiitiquitin,  vol.  ii.  p.  234. 


224 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SONGS   OF  THE  C1D. 


The  following  ballads  are  not  translations  from  the 
Spanish,  but  are  founded  upon  some  of  the  '  wild  and 
wonderful'  traditions  preserved  in  the  romances  of  that 
language,  and  the  ancient  poem  of  the  Cid. 


CID'S  DEPARTURE  INTO  EXILE, 


WITH  sixty  knights  in  his  gallant  train, 
Went  forth  the  Campeadcr  of  Spain  ; 
For  wild  sierras  and  plains  afar. 
He  left  the  lands  of  his  own  Bivar.  (1) 

To  march  o'er  field,  and  to  watch  in  tent, 
From  his  home  in  good  Castile  he  went; 
'I'o  the  wasting  siege  and  the  battle's  van, 
— For  the  noble  Cid  was  a  hanish'd  man  I 

Through  his  olive-woods  the  morn-breeze  play'd, 
And  his  native  streams  wild  music  made, 
And  clear  in  the  sunshine  his  vineyards  lay, 
When  for  march  and  combat  he  took  his  way. 

With  a  thoughtful  spirit  his  way  he  took, 
And  he  turn'd  his  steed  for  a  parting  look, 
For  a  parting  look  at  his  own  fair  towers; 
— Oh!  the  Exile's  heart  hath  weary  hours! 

The  pennons  were  spread,  and  the  band  array'd, 
But  the  Cid  at  the  threshold  a  moment  stay'd ; 
It  too.*  but  a  moment— the  halls  were  lone. 
And  the  gates  of  his  dwelling  all  open  thrown. 

There  was  not  a  steed  in  the  empty  stall, 
Nor  a  spear  nor  a  cloak  on  the  naked  wall, 
Nor  a  hawk  on  the  perch,  nor  a  seat  at  the  door, 
Nor  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  hollow  floor.  (2) 

Then  a  dim  tear  swell'd  to  the  warrior's  eye, 
As  the  voice  of  his  native  groves  went  by; 
And  he  said — "My  foemen  their  wish  have  won — 
—Now  the  will  of  God  be  in  all  things  done  !" 

But  the  trumpet  blew,  with  its  note  of  cheer. 
And  the  winds  of  the  morning  swept  off  the  tear. 
And  the  fields  of  his  glory  lay  distant  far, 
—  He  is  gone  from  the  towers  of  his  own  Bivar! 


THE  CID'S  DEATH-BED 


IT  was  an  hour  of  grief  and  fear 

Within  Valencia's  walls, 
When  the  blue  spring-heaven  lay  still  and  clear 

Above  her  marble  halls. 

There  were  pale  cheeks  and  troubled  eyes, 

And  steps  of  hurrying  feet. 
Where  the  Zainbra's(3)  notes  were  wont  to  rise 

Along  the  sunny  street. 

It  was  an  hour  of  fear  and  grief 

On  bright  Valencia's  shore, 
For  death  was  busy  with  her  chief, 

The  noble  Campeador. 

The  Moor-king's  barks  were  on  the  deep, 

With  sounds  and  sighs  of  war. 
For  the  Cid  was  passing  lo  his  sleep, 

In  the  silent  Alcazar. 

No  moan  was  beard  through  the  towers  of  state, 

No  weeper's  aspect  seen, 
But  by  the  couch  Ximena  sate, 

With  pale  yet  steadfast  mien.  (4) 

Stillness  was  round  the  leader's  bed. 

Warriors  stood  mournful  nigh, 
And  banners,  o'er  his  glorious  head, 

Were  drooping  heavily. 


And  feeble  grew  the  conquering  hand, 

And  cold  the  valiant  breast; 
—  He  had  fought  the  battles  of  the  land, 

And  his  hour  was  come  to  rest. 

What  said  the  Ruler  of  the  field? 

— His  voice  is  faint  and  low  ; 
The  breeze  that  creeps  o'er  his  lance  and  shieta 

Hath  louder  accents  now. 

"  Raise  ye  no  cry.  and  let  no  moan 

Be  made  when  I  depart ; 
The  Moor  must  hear  no  dirge's  tone. 

Be  ye  of  mighty  heart ! 

"  Let  the  cymbal-clash  and  the  trutnpt!«-8t-»i« 
From  your  walls  ring  far  and  shriA. 

And  fear  ye  not,  for  tho  saints  of  Sp' 
Shall  grant  you  victory  still. 

•  And  gird  my  form  with  mail-array. 

And  set  me  on  my  steed, 
So  go  ye  forth  on  your  funeral-way, 
And  God  shall  give  you  speed. 

"  Go  with  the  dead  in  the  front  of  wai 

All  arm'd  with  sword  and  helm. 
And  march  by  the  camp  of  King  Bucar 

For  the  good  Castilian  realm. 

"  And  let  me  slumber  in  the  soil 

Which  gave  my  fathers  birth  ; 
I  have  closed  my  day  of  battle-toil, 

And  my  course  is  done  on  earth." 

—Now  wave,  ye  glorious  banners,  wave  !  (5) 
Through  the  lattice  a  wind  sweeps  by. 

And  the  arms,  o'er  the  death-bed  of  the  brave 
Send  forth  a  hollow  sigh 

Now  wavo,  ye  banners  of  many  a  fight ! 

As  the  fresh  wind  o'er  you  sweeps  ; 
The  wind  and  the  banners  fall  hu^h'd  as  night 

The  Campeador — lie  sleeps  ! 

Sound  the  battle-horn  on  the  breeze  of  mom, 
And  swell  out  the  trumpet's  nlast. 

Till  the  notes  prevail  o'er  the  voice  of  wail, 
For  the  noble  Cid  hath  pass'd  1 


THE  CID'S  FUNERAL  PROCESSION. 


THE  Moor  had  beleaguer'd  Valencia's  towers, 
And  lances  gleam'd  up  through  her  citron-bowers. 
And  the  tents  of  the  desert  had  pirt  her  plain. 
And  camels  were  trampling  the  vines  of  Spain  ; 
For  the  Cid  was  gone  to  rest. 

There  were  men  from  wilds  where  the  death-\vind 

sweeps. 

There  were  spears*  from  bills  where  the  lion  sleeps, 
There  were  bows  from  the  sands  where  the  ostrich 

runs, 

For  the  shrill  horn  of  Afric  had  call'd  her  sons 
To  the  battles  of  the  West. 

Tho  midnight  bell,  o'er  the  dim  seas  heard 
Like  the  roar  of  waters,  the  air  had  stirr'd; 
The  stars  were  shinin."  o'er  tower  and  wave. 
And  the  camp  lay  hnsh'd  f.»  a  wizard's  cave ; 

Bu^the  Christians  woke  that  night. 

They  rear'd  the  Cid  on  his  barbed  steed, 
Like  a  warrior  mail'd  for  the  hour  of  need. 
And  they  fix'd  the  sword  in  the  cold  right  hand 
Which  had  fought  so  well  for  his  fathers'  land, 
And  the  shield  from  his  neck  hung  brigh 

There  was  arminc  heard  in  Valencia's  halls, 
There  was  vigil  kept  on  the  rampart  walls; 
Stars  had  not  faded,  nor  clouds  turn'd  red, 
When  the  knights  had  circled  the  noble  dead, 
And  the  burial-train  moved  ml. 


HEMAXS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


228 


With  a  meia  ired  pace,  as  the  pace  of  one, 
Was  i In:  still  death-marc!)  of  tin-  host  begun ; 
With  a  silent  step  went  the  cuirass'd  bands, 
Like  a  lir.n>  tread  on  the  burning  sands. 
And  they  gave  no  battle-shout. 

When  the  fmt  went  forth  it  was  midnight  deep, 
In  heaven  was  the  inonn,  in  the  camp  was  sleep. 
When  the  last  through  the  city's  gates  had  gone, 
O'er  tent  and  t  impart  the  bright  day  shone, 
With  a  sun-burst  from  the  sea. 

There  were  kniglits  five  hundred  went  arm'd  before, 
And  ISernindez  ilie  Cid's  green  standard  bore ;  (0) 
To  its  last  fair  field,  with  the  break  of  rnorn, 
VVas  the  glorious  banner  in  silence  borne, 
On  the  <l;ni  wind  streaming  free. 

And  the  Campeacl  >r  came  stately  then. 
Like  a  leader  circled  with  steel  clad  men! 
The  helmet  was  d<  wn  o'er  the  face  of  the  dead 
But  his  sfeed  went  proud,  by  a  warrior  led. 

For  he  k  lew  that  the  Cid  was  there. 

Me  was  there,  th.e  (  id,  with  his  own  good  sword, 
And  Ximena  following  her  noble  lord; 
Her  eye  was  solemn   her  step  was  slow, 
But  there  rose  not  a  sound  of  war  or  woe, 
Not  a  whisper  on  the  air. 

The  halls  in  Valencia  were  still  and  lone, 
The  churches  were  empty,  the  masses  done; 
There  was  not  a  voic*  through  the  wide  streets  far, 
Nor  a  foot-fall  heard  in  the  Alcazar, 

— So  the  butial-train  moved  out. 

With  a  measured  pace,  as  the  pace  of  one, 
Was  the  still  death-match  of  the  host  begun ; 
With  a  silent  step  went  the  cuirass'd  bands, 
I  .ike  a  lion's  tread  on  the  burning  sands; 
—And  they  gave  no  battle-shout. 

But   he  deep  hills  peal'd  with  a  cry  ere  long. 
When  the  Christiana  burst  on  tMe  Paynini  throng! 
With  a  sudden  flash  of  the  lance  and  spear, 
And  a  charge  of  the  war-steed  in  full  career, 
It  was  Alvar  Fanez  came!  (7) 

He  that  was  wrapt  with  no  funeral  shroud, 
Had  pass'd  before,  like  a  threatening  cloud  I 
And  the  storm  rush'd  down  on  the  tented  plain, 
A  nd  the  Archer-Queen(8)  with  her  bands  lay  slain, 
For  the  Cid  upheld  his  fame. 

Then  a  terror  fell  on  the  King  Bncar, 
And  the  Libyan  kings  who  had  join'd  his  war; 
And  their  hearts  grew  heavy,  and  died  away, 
And  tlieir  hands  could  not  wield  an  assagay, 
For  the  dreadful  things  they  saw! 

For  it  seetn'd  where  Minaya  his  onset  made, 
'/'here  were  seventy  thousand  knights  array'd, 
All  white  as  the  snow  on  Neyada's  steep, 
And  they  came  like  the  foam  of  a  roaring  deep; 
— 'Twas  a  sight  of  fear  and  awe! 

And  the  crested  form  of  a  warrior  tall, 
With  a  sword  of  fire,  went  before  tliem  all; 
Will)  n  sword  of  fire,  and  a  banner  pule, 
And  a  blood-red  cros«  on  his  shadowy  mail, 
He  rode  in  the  battle's  van  ! 

There  was  fear  in  the  path  of  his  dim  white  horse, 
There  was  death  in  the  Giant-warrior's  course! 
VVtiere  his  banner  stream'd  with  its  ghostly  light, 
Where  his  sword  blazed  out,  there  was  hurrying 
flight. 

For  it  seem'd  not  the  sword  of  man  I 

The  field  and  the  river  grew  darkly  red, 
As  the  kings  and  leaders  of  Afric  fled  ; 
There  was  work  for  the  men  of  the  Cid  that  day! 
— They  were  weary  at  eve,  when  they  ceased  to 
slay, 

As  reapers  whose  task  is  done! 

The  kings  and  the  leaders  of  Afric  fled! 

The  sails  of  their  galleys  in  haste  were  spread; 

15 


But  the  sea  had  its  share  of  the  Paynim-slain, 
And  the  bow  of  the  desert  was  broke  in  Spain  ; 
—So  the  Cid  to  his  grave  pass'd  on  I 


THE  CID'S  RISING. 


'TWAS  the  deep  mid- watch  of  the  silent  night, 

\nd  Leon  in  slumber  lay, 
Wh<  n  a  sound  went  forth,  in  rushing  might, 

Like  an  army  on  its  way !  (9)    . 
In  the  stillness  of  the  hour, 
When  the  dreams  of  sleep  have  power. 
And  men  forget  the  day. 

Through  the  dark  and  lonely  streets  it  went. 

Till  the  slurnberers  woke  in  dread; 
The  sound  of  a  passing  armament. 
With  the  charger's  stony  tread. 
There  was  heard  no  trumpet's  peal. 
But  the  heavy  tramp  of  steel, 
As  a  host's,  to  combat  led. 

Through  the  dark  and  lonely  streets  it  pass'd, 

And  the  hollow  pavement  rang. 
And  the  towers,  as  with  a  sweeping  blast, 

Rock'd  to  the  stormy  clang  ! 
But  the  march  of  the  viewless  train 
Went  on  to  a  royal  fane, 
Where  a  priest  his  night-hymn  sang. 

There  was  knocking  that  shook  the  marble  floor, 

And  a  voice  at  the  gate,  which  said — 
"  That  the  Cid  Ruy  Diez,  the  Campeador, 

Was  there  in  his  arms  array'd; 
And  that  with  him.  from  the  tomb. 
Had  the  Count  Gonzalez  come, 
With  a  host,  uprisen  to  aid  I 

"  And  they  came  for  the  buried  king  that  lay 

At  rest  hi  that  ancient  fane  ; 
For  he  must  be  arm'd  on  the  battle-day, 

With  them  to  Heliver  Spain  1" 
— Then  the  march  went  sounding  on, 
And  the  Moors,  by  noontide  sun, 
Were  dust  on  Tolosa's  plain. 


NOTES 


NOTE  1. 

Bivar.  the  suprx»ed  birth-place  of  the  Cid,  was  a  castle,  about  tw» 
leagun  from  Burgos. 


NOTE  2. 

naba  la cabeza,  estabnl. 


Vio  pui 
Alcandaras  v arias 
E  sin  falcones,  e  i 
Soipiro  mi<?  Cid. 


.tando : 

n  pielles  i-  sin  mantos: 
adtore*  mudados. 

Paetn  of  the  Cid. 


The  mmbra,  a  Moorish  dance.  When  Valencia  was  taken  by  the 
Cid,  many  of  the  Moorish  families  chose  to  remain  there,  «nd  resiilt 
under  his  government. 

NOTE  4. 

The  calm  fortitude  of  Ximena  is  frequently  alluded  to,  n.  U>e  ro- 
mance*. 

NOTE  5. 

Banderas  antiguas,  tristes 
De  victorias  u'n  liempo  amadaa, 
Trrmnlando  estan  al  viento 
Y  lioran  aunque  no  hablan,  he. 
Herder's  translation  of  there  romances  fDer  Cid,  nach  Spanischeo 

Romanzen  besungcn)  are  remarkable  for  their  spirit  and  scrupulow 

fidelity. 

NOTE  6. 

"  And  while  they  stood  there,  they  saw  the  Cid  Ray  Diei  coming 
up  with  three  hundred  knich's ;  fur  he  had  not  been  in  the  battlet 
and  they  knew  his  frttn  pennon." — Sauthey'i  Chronicle  of  the  CiiL 

NOTB  7. 
Alvar  Fanex  Minaya,  one  of  the  Cid's  moat  distinguished  warrior*. 


226 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


NOTE  8. 

The  archer-queen, 

A  Moorish  Amazon,  who,  with  a  band  of  fi> 
f  »»ied  King  Bucarfrc 


•Iw  obtained  thi 


of  the  Star 


•chers. 


i,  accom- 
rring,  U»t 


Una  Mora  muy  galiarda, 
Gran  inatvra  en  el  tirar 
Con  saelas  del  Aljava, 
De  los  aicos  de  'I  urquia 
Estrella  era  nombrada, 
Fur  la  destrtza  que  a  via 
En  el  herir  de  la  Xara. 

NOTE  9. 
See  Southey'i  Chronicle  of  the  Cid,  p.  353 


THE  HEART  OF  BRUCE 

IN 
MELROSE  ABBEY. 


MKAP  •  !  that  didst  press  forward  still,* 
Wnere  the  trumpet's  note  rang  shrill, 
Where  the  knightly  swords  were  crossing. 
And  the  pinnies  like  sea-foam  tossing, 
Leader  of  the  charging  sp«ir, 
Fi^ry  heart  ! — and  liesl  thou  kertt 
May  this  narrow  spnt  inurn 
Aught  that  so  could  beat  ami  burn? 

Heart!  that  lovedst  the  clarion's  blast, 
Silent  is  thy  place  at  last ; 
Silent, — save  when  early  bird 
Sings  where  once  the  mass  was  heard; 
Silent, — save  when  breeze's  moan 
Comes  through  flowers  or  fretted  stone ; 
And  the  wild-r.>se  waves  around  thee. 
And  the  long  dark  grass  hath  bound  thee,— 
— Sleep's!  thou,  «s  the  swain  might  sleep, 
In  his  nameless  valley  deep? 

No!  brave  heart !— though  cold  and  lone, 
Kingly  power  is  yet  thine  own  ! 
Feel  I  not  thy  spirit  brood 
O'er  the  whispering  solitude? 
Lo !  at  one  high  thought  of  thee, 
Fast  they  rise,  the  bold,  the  free, 
Sweeping  past  thy  lowly  bed. 
With  a  mute,  yet  stately  tread. 
Shedding  their  pale  armour's  light 
Forth  upon  the  breathless  night, 
Bending  every  warlike  plume 
In  the  prayer  o'er  saintly  tomb. 

Is  the  noble  Douglas  nigh, 
Ann'd  to  f./llow  thee,  or  die? 
Now,  true  heart,  as  thou  wert  wont, 
Pass  thou  to  the  peril's  front ! 
Where  the  banner-spear  is  gleaming. 
And  the  battle's  red  wine  streaming, 
Till  the  Paynim  quail  before  thee. 
Till  the  cross  wave  proudly  o'er  thee; — 
— Dream?  !  the  falling  of  a  leaf 
Wins  me  from  their  splendours  brief; 
Dreams,  yet  bright  ones !  scorn  them  not, 
Thou  that  seek'st  the  holy  spot ; 
Nor,  amidst  its  lone  domain, 
Call  the  faith  in  relics  vain  I 


NATURE'S  FAREWELL. 


The  beautiful  it  < 


nished,  and  return!  not. 

Coleridge' i  IVaUrnitein. 


A  Tonm  rode  forth  from  his  childhood's  home. 
Through  the  crowded  paths  of  the  world  to  roam, 
And  the  green  leaves  whisper'd,  as  he  pass'd, 
Wherefore,  thou  dreamer,  away  so  fast? 

•*  Now  pan  thou  forward,  ai  thou  wert  wont,  and  Douglai  wffl 
fellow  thee  or  die  !"  With  these  words  Douglas  threw  from  him  the 
wart  of  liruce,  i,,to  mid-battle  against  the  Moors  of  Spain. 


•  Knew'st  thou  with  what  thou  art  parting  tare 
Long  wouldst  thou  linger  in  doubt  and  fear; 
Thy  heart's  light  laughter,  thy  sunny  hours, 
Thou  hast  lift  in  «mr  shades  with  the  spring's  wikl 
flowers. 

"  Under  the  arch  by  our  mingling  made, 
Thou  and  thy  brother  have  gaily  play'd; 
Ye  may  meet  again  where  ye  roved  of  yore, 
But  as  ye  have  met  there  —  oh!  never  more  1" 

On  rode  the  youth  —  and  the  boughs  imong 
Thus  the  free  birds  o'er  his  pathway  sung: 
"  Wherefore  so  fast  unto  life  away? 
Thou  art  leaving  for  ever  thy  joy  in  our  layl 

"Thou  mayst  come  to  the  summer  woods  again, 
And  thy  heart  have  no  echo  to  greet  their  strain; 
Afar  from  the  foliage  its  love  will  dwell  — 
A  change  must  pass  o'er  thee—  farewell,  farewell  I* 

On  rode  the  youth:—  and  the  founts  and  streams 
Th  is  mingled  a  voice  with  his  joyous  dreams  : 
—  •'  We  have  been  thy  playmates  through  many  a 

day, 
Wherefore  thus  leave  us  ?—  oh  !  yet  delay  ! 


Thou  wilt  visit  the  scenes  of  thy  childhood's  glee, 
With  the  breath  of  the  world  on  thy  spirit  free; 
Passion  and  sorrow  its  depths  will  have  stirr'd,  • 
And  the  singing  of  waters  be  vainly  beard. 

"Thou  wilt  bear  in  our  gladsome  laugh  no  part— 
What  should  it  do  for  a  burning  heart? 
Thou  wilt  bring  to  the  banks  of  our  freshest  rill, 
Thirst  which  no  fountain  on  earth  may  still. 

"  Farewell  !—  when  thou  comest  again   to  thine 

own, 

Thou  wilt  miss  from  our  music  its  loveliest  tone; 
Mournfully  true  is  the  tale  we  tell- 
Yet  on,  fiery  dreamer  1  farewell,  farewell  !" 

And  a  something  of  gloom  on  his  spirit  weigii'd, 
As  he  caught  the  last  sounds  of  his  native  shade* 
But  he  knew  not,  till  many  a  bright  spell  broke, 
How  deep  were  the  oracles  Nature  spoke  ! 


THE  LYRE'S  LAMENT. 


A  large  lyre  hung  in  an  opening  of  the  rock,  and  gate  forth   I 
Melancholy  music  to  the  wind— but  no  human  being  was  to  be  SCM 

SatalhM. 


A  DEE*  TONED  Lyre  hung  murmuring 

To  the  wild  wind  of  the  sea  : 
"O  melancholy  wind,"  it  sigh'd, 

"  What  would  thy  breath  with  me  ? 

"Thou  canst  not  wake  the  spirit 

That  in  me  slumbering  lies, 
Thou  strikes!  not  forth  iir  electric  firj 

Of  buried  melodies. 

"Wind  of  the  dark  sea-waters! 

Thou  dost  but  sweep  my  strings 
Into  wild  gusts  of  tnournfulness, 

With  the  rushing  of  thy  wings. 

"But  the  spell— the  gift— the  lightning— 

Within  my  frame  conceal'd. 
Must  I  moulder  on  the  rock  away. 

With  their  triumphs  unreveal'd? 

"  I  have  power,  high  power,  for  freedom 

To  wake  the  burning  soul ! 
I  have  sounds  that  through  (he  ancient  hill* 

Like  a  torrent's  voice  might  roll 


REMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


*2T 


*•  I  have  pealing  notes  of  victory 
That  might  welcome  kin;s  frniu  war; 

I  have  rich  deep  tones  to  send  the  wail 
For  a  hero's  death  nfar. 

14 1  have  chords  to  lift  the  paean 

From  the  temple  to  the  sky, 
Full  as  the  forest-unisons 

When  sweeping  winds  are  high. 

'And  Love— for  Love's  lone  sorrow 

I  have  accents  that  might  swell 
Through  the summer-air  with  the  rose's  breath 
Or  the  violet's  faint  farewell : 

*  Soft— spiritual — mournful— 

Signs  in  each  note  enshrined — 
But  who  shall  call  that  sweetness  forth? 

Thou  canst  not,  ocean-wind! 

"I  pass  without  rny  glory, 

Forgotten  I  decay — 
Where  is  the  touch  to  give  me  life  7 

—Wild  fitful  wind,  away  I" 

So  sigh'd  the  broken  music 

That  in  gladness  had  no  part- 
How  like  art  Hum.  neglected  Lyre, 

To  many  a  human  heart ! 


THE  WOUNDED  EAGLE. 


EAGLE!  this  is  not  thy  sphere  : 
Warrior  bird  !  what  seek'st  thou  here  1 
Wherefore  by  the  fountain's  brink 
Doth  thy  royal  pinion  sink  ? 
Wherefore  on  the  violet's  bed 
Lay'st  thou  thus  thy  drooping  head? 
Thou,  that  hold'st  the  blast  in  scorn, 
Thou  that  wear's!  the  wings  of  morn 

Eagle!  wilt  thou  not  arise? 
Look  upon  thine  own  bright  skies? 
Lift  thy  glance  !  the  fiery  sun 
There  his  pride  of  place  halh  won  ! 
And  the  mountain-lark  is  there, 
And  sweet  sound  hath  til  I'd  the  air; 
Hast  thou  left  that  realm  on  high? 
—Oh!  it  can  be  but  to  die  I 

Eagle,  Eagle!  thou  hast  bow'd 
From  thine  empire  o'er  the  cloud  I 
Thou,  that  haclst  ethereal  birth, 
Thou  hast  stoop'd  too  near  the  earth, 
And  the  hunter's  shaft  hath  found  thee. 
And  the  toils  of  death  have  bound  thee  I 
— Wherefore  didst  thou  leave  thy  place, 
Creature  of  a  kingly  race? 

Wert  thou  weary  of  thy  throne? 
Was  thy  sky's  dominion  lone? 
Chill  and  lone  it  well  might  be. 
Yet  that  mighty  wing  was  free ! 

Now  the  chain  is  o'er  it  cast, 
From  thy  heart  the  blood  flows  fast, 
— Woe  for  gifted  souls  and  high  i 
Is  not  such  t/icir  destiny  ? 


7.  NIGHTINGALE'S  DEATH-SONG. 


Willit  du  inch  den  Nachtijatlen  fragrn, 
Die  mil  icelrnvolleu  Melodic 

Dich  enlzuckten  in  An  Lenzei  Tagen  ? 
— Nur  to  lang  lie  lieblen,  wartn  lie. 


The  skies  have  lost  their  splendour, 
The  waters  changed  their  tone, 

And  wherefore,  in  the  faded  world. 
Should  music  linger  on.? 

Where  is  the  golden  sunshine. 
And  where  the  flower-cup's  glow? 

And  where  the  joy  of  the  dancing  leave*. 
And  the  fountain's  laughing  flow? 

A  voice,  in  every  whisper 
Of  the  wave,  the  bough,  the  air. 

Comes  asking  for  the  beautiful, 
And  moaning,  "  Where,  oh  I  where?" 

Tell  of  the  bri«htness  parted, 
Thou  bee,  thou  lamb  at  play! 

Thou  lark,  in  thy  victorious  mirth 
— Are  ye,  too,  pass'd  away  7 

Mournfully,  sing  mournfully! 

The  royal  rose  is  gone. 
Melt  from  the  woods,  my  spirit,  melt 

In  one  deep  farewell  tone  ! 

Not  so!— swell  forth  triumphantly, 

The  full,  rich,  fervent  strain  I 
Hence  with  young  love  and  life  I  go, 

In  the  summer's  joyous  train. 

With  sunshine,  with  sweet  odour, 

With  every  precious  thing. 
Upon  the  last  warm  southern  breeze 

My  soul  its  flight  shall  wing. 

Alone  I  shall  not  linger. 
When  the  days  of  hope  are  past. 

To  watch  the  fall  of  leaf  by  leaf, 
To  wait  the  rushing  blast. 

Triumphantly,  triumphantly! 

Sing  to  the  woods,  I  go  ! 
For  me,  perchance,  in  other  lands, 

The  glorious  rose  may  blow. 

The  sky's  transparent  azure, 
And  the  greensward's  violet  breath, 

And  the  dance  of  light  leaves  in  the  wind, 
May  there  know  naught  of  death. 

No  more,  no  more  sing  mournfully! 

Swell  high,  then  break,  my  heart: 
With  love,  the  spirit  of  the  woods, 

With  summer  I  depart ! 


THE  DIVER. 


They  learn  in  suffering  what  they  teach  in  toog. 


Sct-'la. 


MOURNFULLY,  sing  mournfully, 
And  die  away,  my  heart ! 

The  rose,  the  glorious  rose  is  gone, 
And  1,  too,  will  depart. 


THOU  hast  been  where  the  rocks  of  coral  grow, 
Thou  hast  fought  with  eddying  waves;— 

Thy  cheek  is  pale,  and  thy  heart  beats  low, 
Thou  searcher  of  ocean's  caves! 

Thou  hast  look'd  on  the  gleaming  wealth  of  oH 
And  wrecks  where  theji^ve  have  striven; 

The  deep  is  a  strong  and* a  icarful  ho'.d, 
But  thou  its  bar  hast  riven  ' 

A  wild  arid  weary  life  is  thine, 

A  wasting  task  and  lone; 
Though  treasure-grots  for  thee  may  shine. 

To  all  besides  unknown  1 

A  weary  life!  but  a  swift  decay 

Soon,  soon  shall  set  thee  free; 
Thou'rt  passing  fast  from  thy  toils  away, 

Thou  wrestler  with  the  sea  I 

In  thy  dim  eye,  on  thy  hollow  cherk, 

Well  are  the  death-signs  read- 
Go  !  for  the  pearl  in  its  cavern  seek. 

Ere  hope  and  power  be  fled  I 


t28 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  bright  In  beauty's  coronal 

That  glistening  gem  shall  be ; 
A  star  tD  all  in  the  festive  hall— 

But  who  will  think  on  Ihee? 

None  1 — as  it  gleams  from  the  queen-like  head, 

Not  one  'midst  throngs  will  say 
"  A  life  hath  been  like  a  rain-drop  shed, 

For  that  pale  quivering  ray." 

Woe  for  the  wealth  thus  dearly  bought  I 

— And  are  not  those  like  thw. 
Who  win  for  earth  the  gems  of  thought  7 

O  wrestler  with  the  sea  ! 

Down  to  the  gulfs  of  the  soul  they  go, 
Where  the  passion-fountains  burn. 

Gathering  the  jewels  far  below 
From  many  a  buried  urn  : 

Wringing  from  lava-veins  the  fire. 

That  o'er  bright  words  is  pour'd  ; 
Learning  deep  sounds,  to  make  the  lyre 

A  spirit  in  each  chord. 

But,  oh!  the  price  of  bitter  tears, 

Paid  for  the  lonely  power 
That  throws  at  last,  o'er  desert  years, 

A  darkly-glorious  dower! 

Like  flower-seeds,  by  the  wild  wind  spread, 

So  radiant  thoughts  are  strew'd  ; 
— The  soul  whence  those  high  gifts  are  shed, 

May  faint  in  solitude  ! 

And  who  will  think,  when  the  strain  is  sung, 

Till  a  thousand  hearts  are  stirr'd, 
What  life-drops,  from  the  minstrel  wrung, 

Have  gush'd  with  every  word  ? 

None,  none! — his  treasures  live  like  thine, 

He  strives  and  dies  like  thee  ; 
— Thou,  that  hast  been  to  the  pearl's  dark  shrine 

O  wrestler  with  the  sea  ! 


TRIUMPHANT  MUSIC. 


Tsicete,  tacete,  O  suo 
Risvegliate  in  vano  'I 


che  non  puo  liberarei. 


WHEREFORE  and  whither  bear'st  ihou  up  my  spirit, 
On  eagle  wings,  through  every  plume  that  thrill? 

It  hath  no  crown  of  victory  to  inherit — 
Be  still,  triumphant  harmony!  be  still! 

Thine  are  no  sounds  for  earth,  thus  proudly  swell- 
ing 

Into  rich  floods  of  joy  :— it  is  but  pain 
To  mount  so  high,  yet  find  on  hifih  no  dwelling, 

To  sink  so  fast,  so  heavily  again! 

No  sounds  for  earth? — Yes,  to  young  chieftain 

dying 

On  his  own  battle-field,  at  set  of  sun. 
With  his  freed  country's  banner  o'er  him  flying, 
Well  mightst  Ihou  speak  of  fume's  high  guerdon 
won. 

No  sounds  for  earth? — Yes,  for  the  martyr  leading 
,  (Into  victorious  death  serenely  on. 
For  patriot  by  his  rescued  altars  bleeding, 
Thou  bast  a  voice  in  each  majestic  tone. 

But  speak  not  thus  to  one  whose  heart  is  beating 

Auairirt  life's  narrow  hound,  in  conflict  vain  I 
for  power,  for  joy,  high  hope,  and  rapturous  greet- 
ing, 

Thou  wakest  lone  thirst— be  hush'd,  exulting 
strain ! 

Be  hush'd,  or  hroathe  of  grief !— of  exile  yearnings 
Under  the  willows  of  the  stranger-shore; 

Breathe  of  the  soul's  untold  and  restless  burnings, 
For  looks,  tones,  footslons,  that  return  no  more. 


Breathe  of  deep  love — a  lonely  vigil  keeping 
Through  the  night-hours,  o'er  wasted  wealth  to 

pine ; 
Rich  thoughts    and    sad,    like  faded  rose-leavoi 

heaping, 
In  the  shut  heart,  at  once  a  tomb  and  shrine. 

Or  pass  as  if  thy  spirit-notes  came  sighing 
From  worlds  beneath  some  blue  Elysian  sky ; 

Breathe  of  repose,  the  pure,  the  bright,  th'  undy- 
ing— 
Of  joy  no  more- -bewildering  harmony  I 


THE  SOUND  OF  THE  SEA. 


THOU  art  sounding  on,  thoii  mighty  sea, 

For  ever  and  the  same  ! 
The  ancient  rocks  yet  ring  to  thee, 

Those  thunders  naught  can  tame. 

Oh !  many  a  glorious  voice  is  gone 
From  the  rich  bowers  of  earth,  , 

And  hush'd  is  many  a  lovely  one 
Of  mournfulness  or  mirth. 

The  Dorian  flute,  that  sigh'd  of  yore 

Along  the  wave,  is  still ; 
The  harp  of  Jndah  peals  no  more 

On  /xm's  awful  hill. 

And  Memnon's  lyre  hath  lost  the  chond 

That  breathed  the  mystic  tone, 
And  the  songs  at  Rome's  high  triumphs  pour'd. 

Are  with  her  eagles  flown. 

And  mute  the  Moorish  horn,  that  rang 

O'er  stream  and  mountain  free. 
And  the  hymn  the  leagued  Crusaders  sang, 

Hath  died  in  Galilee- 

But  thou  art  swelling  on,  thou  deep, 

Through  many  an  olden  clime, 
Thy  billowy  anthem,  ne'er  to  sleep 

Until  the  close  of  time. 

Thou  liftest  up  thy  solemn  voice 

To  every  wind  and  sky, 
And  all  our  earth's  green  shores  rejoke 

In  that  one  harmony. 

It  fills  the  noontide's  calm  profound, 

The  sur^i  s  iieaven  of  gold ; 
And  the  still  midnight  hears  the  sound 

Even  as  first  it  roll'd. 

Let  there  be  silence,  deep  and  strange 

Where  sceptred  cities  rose ! 
Thnu  speak'st  of  one  who  doth  not  change— 

— So  may  our  hearts  repose. 


THE  FUNERAL  GENIUS. 

AN   ANCIENT  STATUE, 


THOO  should'st  be  look'd  on  when  the  starlight 

falls 

Through  the  blue  stillness  of  the  summer  air, 
Not  by  the  torch-fire  wavering  on  the  walls; 
It  has  too  fitful  and  too  wild  a  glare  ' 
And  thou  t — thy  rest,  the  soft,  the  lovely,  seems 
To  ask  light  steps,  that  will  not  break  its  dreams. 


Flowers  are  upon  thy  brow  ;  for  so  the  dead 
Were  crown'd  of  old,  with  pale  spring  flowers  likfl 

these : 

Sleep  on  thine  eye  hath  sunk  ;  yet  softly  shed, 
As  from  the  wing  of  some  faint  southern  breeze ; 
And  the  pine-boughs  o'ershadow  thee  with  gloom 
Which  of  the   grove   seems   breathing— not  UM 

tnmK 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


229 


Thej  fear'd  not  death,  whose  cann  and  gracious 

thought 

Of  the  last  hour,  hath  settled  thus  in  thee  ! 
They  who  thy  wreath  of  pallid  roses  wrought, 
And  laid  thy  head  against  the  forest-tree, 
As  that  of  one  by  music's  dreamy  close, 
On  the  wood-violets  lull'd  to  deep  repose. 

They  fear'd  not  death!— yet  who  shall  say  his 

touch 

Thus  lightly  falls  on  gentle  things  and  fair? 
Doth  he  bestow,  or  will  he  leave  so  much 
Of  tender  beauty  as  thy  features  wear  ! 
Thou  sleeper  of  the  bower!  on  whose  young  eyes 
So  still  a  night,  a  night  of  summer,  liesl 

Had  they  seen  aught  like  thee  ?— Did  some  fair 

boy 

Thus,  with  his  graceful  hair,  before  them  rest? 
-His  graceful  hair  no  more  to  wave  in  joy, 
8ut  drooping  as  with  heavy  dews  oppress'd! 
And  his  eye  veil'd  so  softly  by  its  fringe, 
And  his  lip  faded  to  the  white-rose  tinge! 

Oh !  happy,  if  to  them  the  one  dread  hour 
Made  known  its  lessons  from  a  brow  like  thine! 
If  all  their  knowledge  of  the  spoiler's  power 
Came  by  a  look,  so  tranquilly  divine  ! 

—  Let  him,  who  thus  hath  seen  the  lovely  part, 
Hold  well  that  image  to  his  thoughtful  heart ! 

Bu'.  thou,  fair  slumberer!  was  there  less  of  woe, 

Or  love,  or  terror,  in  the  days  of  old, 

That    men    pour'd  out   their  gladdening  spirit'* 

flow, 

Like  sunshine,  on  the  desolate  and  cold, 
And  gave  thy  semblance  to  the  shadowy  king 
Who  for  deep  souls  had  then  a  deeper  sting  1 

In  the  dark  bosom  of  the  earth  they  laid 
Far  more  than  we— for  loftier  faith  is  ours ! 
Their  penis  were  lost  in  ashes— yet  they  mads 
The  grave  a  place  of  beauty  and  of  flowers 
With  fragrant  wreaths,  and  summer  boughs  ar- 

r.iy'd, 
And  lovely  sculpture  gleaming  through  the  shade. 

Is  it  for  us  a.  darker  gloom  to  shed 
O'er  its  dim  precincts  ? — do  we  not  intrust 
But  for  a  time  its  chambers  with  our  dead, 
And  strew  immortal  seed  upon  the  dust? 

—  Why  should  toe  dwell  on    that   which   lies  be- 

neath, 
When  living  light  hath  toucii'd  the  brow  of  death? 


TROUBADOUR  SONG. 


THE  warrior  cross'd  the  ocean's  foam, 
For  the  stormy  field*  of  war— 

The  maid  was  left  in  a  smiling  home. 
And  a  sunny  land  afar. 

His  voice  was  heard  where  javelin  showers 

Pour'd  oti  the  steel-clad  line ; 
Her  step  was  'midst  the  summer  flowers, 

Her  seat  beneath  the  vine. 

His  shield  was  cleft,  his  lance  was  riven. 
And  the  red  blood  stain'd  his  crest ; 

While  she— the  gentlest  wind  of  heaven 
Might  scarcely  fan  her  breast. 

Yet  a  thousand  arrows  pass'd  him  by, 
And  again  he  cross'd  the  seas ; 

But  she  had  died,  as  roses  die 
That  perish  with  a  breeze. 

As  roses  die,  when  the  blast  it  corn*, 

For  all  things  bright  and  fair- 
There  was  death  within  the  smiling  home, 
How  bad  death  found  her  there  ? 


OWEN  GLENDWYER'S  WAR-SONG. 


SAW  ye  the  blazing  star? 

The  heavens  look  down  on  freedom's  war, 

And  light  her  torch  on  high : 
Bright  on  the  dragon  crest 
It  tells  that  glory's  wing  shall  rest, 

When  warriors  meet  to  die  ! 
Let  earth's  pale  tyrants  read  despair 

And  vengeance  in  its  flame, 
Hail  ye,  my  bards !  the  omen  fair 

Of  conquest  and  of  fame. 
And  swell  the  rushing  mountain  air. 

With  songs  to  Glendwyer's  name 

At  the  dead  hour  of  night, 

Mark'd  ye  how  each  majestic  height 

Bur  if  d  in  its  awful  beams! 
Red  shone  th'  eternal  snows, 
And  all  the  land,  as  bright  it  rose, 

Was  full  of  glorious  dreams. 
Oh!  eagles  of  the  battles,  rise  ! 

The  hope  of  Gvvynedd  wakes — 
It  is  your  banner  in  the  skies, 

Through  each  dark  cloud  that  break* 
And  mantles  with  triumphant  dyes, 

Vour  thousand  hills  and  lakes! 

A  sound  is  on  the  breeze, 

A  murmur,  as  of  swelling  seas! 

The  Saxon  's  on  his  way  ! 
Lo!  spear,  and  shield,  and  lance. 
From  I  leva's  waves  with  lightning  glance 

Reflected  to  the  day. 
But  who  the  torrent-wave  compels 

A  conqueror's  chains  to  bear? 
Let  those  who  wake  the  soul  that  dwells 

On  our  free  winds,  beware  ! 
The  greenest  and  the  loveliest  dells 

May  be  the  lion's  lair. 

Of  us  they  told  the  seers 

And  monarch-bards  of  elder  years. 

Who  walk'd  on  earth  as  powers; 
And  in  their  burning  strains, 
A  spell  of  might  and  mystery  reigns. 

To  guard  our  mountain-towers. 
— In  Snowdon's  caves  a  prophet  lay. 

Before  his  gifted  sight 
The  march  of  ages  pass'd  away, 

With  hero-footsteps  bright, 
But  proudest,  in  that  long  array 

Watt  Glendwyer's  path  of  light. 


THE  PENITENT'S  OFFERING. 
[ST.  LUKE,  vii.  37,  38.] 


THOU  that  with  pallid  cheek, 

And  eyes  in  sadness  meek. 
And  faded  locks  that  humbly  swept  the  ground. 

From  their  long  wanderings  won. 

Before  the  all-healing  Son, 
Didst  bow  thee  to  the  earth,  oh,  lost  and  found  : 

When  thou  would'st  bathe  his  feet, 

With  odours  richly  sweet, 
And  many  a  shower  of  woman's  burning  teur. 

And  dry  them  with  that  hair, 

Brought  low  the  dust  to  wear 
From  the  crowded  beauty  of  its  festal  year. 

Did  he  reject  thee  then, 

While  the  sharp  scorn  of  men 
On  thy  once  bright  and  stately  he.td  was  cast 

No,  from  the  Saviour's  mien, 

A  solemn  light  serene, 
Bore  to  thy  soul  the  peace  of  God  at  last. 

For  thee',  their  smiles  no  more 
Familiar  faces  wore. 


230 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Voices,  once  kind,  had  learn'd  the  stranger's  tone, 

Who  raised  thee  up  and  bound 

Thy  silent  spirit's  wound? 
He,  from  all  guilt  the  stainless,  He  alone  I 

But  which,  oh,  erring  child ! 

Prom  home  so  long  beguiled, 
Which  of  thine  offerings  won  those  words  01 
Heaven, 

That  o'er  the  bruised  reed, 

Condemn'd  of  earth  to  bleed, 
In  music  pass'd,  "Thy  sins  are  all  forgiven  1" 

Was  it  that  perfume  fraught 

With  balm  and  incense,  brought 
From  the  sweet  woods  of  Araby  the  blest? 

Or  that  fast  flowing  rain 

Of  tears, "which  not  in  vain 
To  Him  who  scorn 'd  not  tears,  thy  woesconfess'd  ? 

No,  not  by  these  restored 

Unto  thy  Father's  board. 
Thy  peace,  that  kindled  joy  in  Heaven,  was  made; 

But  costlier  in  his  eyes, 

By  that  blest  sacrifice, 
Thy  heart,  thy  full  deep  heart,  before  Him  laid. 


THE    WISH 


"  HOLT  hath  been  our  converse,  gentle  friend ! 
Full  of  high  thoughts  breathing  of  heavenward 

hope, 

Deepen 'd  by  tenderest  memories  of  the  dead ; 
Therefore,  beyond  the  grave,  I  surely  deem 
That  we  shall  meet  again." 

Come  to  me,  when  my  soul 
Hath  but  a  few  dim  hours  to  linger  here  ; 
When  earthly  chains  are  as  a  shrivell'd  scroll, 
Oh !  let  me  feel  thy  presence !  be  but  near ! 

That  I  may  look  once  more 
Into  thine  eyes,  which  never  changed  for  me; 
That  1  may  speak  to  thee  of  that  bright  shore, 
Where,  with  our  treasure,  we  have  yearn'd  to  be. 

Thou  friend  of  many  days  1 
of  sadness  and  of  joy,  of  home  and  hearth ! 
Will  not  thy  spirit  aid  me  then  to  r.  ise 
The  trembling  pinion  of  my  hope  from  earth? 

By  every  solemn  t  nought 

Which  on  our  hearts  hath  sunk,  in  years  gone  by, 
From  the  deep  voices  of  the  mountains  caught, 
O'er  all  tfte  adoring  silence  of  the  sky  ; 

By  every  lofty  tl.ume. 

Wherein,  in  low-toned  reverence,  we  have  spoken  1 
By  our  communion  in  each  fervent  dream 
That  sought  from  realms  beyond  the  grave,  a  to- 
ken ; 

And  by  our  tears  for  those 
Whose  loss  had  touch'd  our  world  with  hues  of 

death ; 

Arid  by  the  hopes  that  with  their  dust  repose, 
As  flowers  await  the  south  wind's  vernal  breath  : 

Come  to  me  in  that  day — 

The  one— the  sever'd  from  all  days !— O"  Friend ! 
Even  then,  if  human  thought  may  then  have  sway 
My  soul  with  thine  shall  yet  rejoice  to  blend. 

Nor  then,  nor  there  alone : 
I  ask  my  heart  if  all  indeed  must  die ; 
All  that  of  holiest  feelings  it  hath  known? 
And  my  heart's  voice  replies— Eternity  / 


THE  WELCOME  TO  DEATH. 


"  Shall  I  abide 
In  this  dull  world  t 

I  tuve 
Immortal  longings  in  me  !" 

Antony  and  Cleopatra. 


THOU  art  welcome,  O  thou  warning  voice. 

My  soul  hath  pined  for  thee  ; 
Thou  art  welcome  as  sweet  sounds  from  shore. 

To  wanderer  on  the  sea. 
I  hear  thee  in  the  rustling  woods. 

In  the  sighing  vernal  airs; 
Thou  call's!  me  from  the  lonely  earth. 

With  a  deeper  tone  than  theirs. 

The  lonely  earth  !  since  kindred  steps 

From  its  green  paths  are  fled, 
A  dimness  and  a  hush  have  fall'n 

O'er  all  its  beauty  spread. 
The  silence  of  the  unanswering  soul 

Is  on  me  and  around  ; 
My  heart  hath  echoes  but  for  thee, 

Thou  still  small  warning  sound! 

Voice  after  voice  hath  died  away, 

Once  in  my  dwelling  heard. 
Sweet  household  name  by  name  hath  changed 

To  griefs  forbidden  word  I 
From  dreams  of  night  on  each  I  call. 

Each  of  the  far  removed ; 
And  waken  to  my  own  wild  cry. 

Where  are  ye,  my  beloved  1 

Ye  left  me  !  and  earth's  flowers  grew  fill'd 

With  records  of  the  past. 
And  stars  pour'd  down  another  light 

Than  o'er  my  youth  they  oast  : 
The  skylark  sings  not  as  he  sang 

When  ye  were  by  my  side, 
And  mournful  tones  are  in  the  wind. 

Unheard  before  ye  died  ! 

Thou  art  welcome,  O  thou  summonei  t 

Why  should  the  last  remain  ? 
What  eye  can  reach  my  heart  of  heart*. 

Bearing  in  light  again  ? 
Even  could  this  be — too  much  of  fear 

O'er  love  would  now  be  thrown — 
Away,  away !  from  time,  from  change. 

To  dwell  amidst  mine  ownl 


THE  VOICE  OF  MUSIC 

'Sinking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  «re  d»rkly  bound." 


WHENCE  is  the  might  of  thy  master  spell? 

Speak  to  me,  voice  of  sweet  sound,  and  tell 
How  canst  thou  wake,  by  one  gentle  breath, 

Passionate  visions  of  love  and  death  1 

How  call'st  thou  back,  with  a  note,  a  sigh, 
Words  and  low  tones  from  the  days  gone  by— 

A  sunny  glance,  or  a  fond  farewell  ? 
Speak  to  me,  voice  of  sweet  sound,  and  tell . 

What  is  thy  power,  from  the  soul's  deep  spring 
In  sudden  gushes  the  tears  to  bring  ; 

Even  'midst  the  swells  of  thy  festal  glee, 
Fountains  of  sorrow  are  stirr'd  by  thee  I 

Vain  are  those  tears  1 — vain  and  fruitless  all— 
Showers  that  refresh  not,  yet  still  must  fall 

For  a  purer  bliss  while  'be  full  heart  burns. 
For  a  brighter  home  while  tike  spirit  yearns. 


HElVfANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


231 


Something  of  mystery  there  surely  dwells, 
Waiting  thy  touch,  in  our  bosom-cells; 

Something  that  finds  not  its  answer  here— 
A  chain  to  be  clasp'd  in  another  sphere. 

Therefore  a  current  of  sadness  deep. 
Through  the  stream  of  thy  triumphs  is  heard  to 

sweep, 

Like  a  moan  of  the  breeze  through  a  summer  sky — 
Like  a  name  of  the  dead  when  the  wine  foam* 
high! 

Yet  speak  to  me  still,  though  thy  tones  be  fraught 
With  vain  remembrance  and  troubled  thought ; — 

Speak  !  for  thou  tellest  my  soul  that  its  birth 
Links  it  with  regions  more  bright  than  earth 


SWISS  HOME-SICKNESS. 

TRANSLATED   FROM   TUB   LAST   OF  THE   MELODIM 
SUNG    BY   THE   TYROLESE   FAMILY. 


11  Hen  incin  Hera,  warum  n  traurij,"  Sc. 


WHEREFORE  so  sad  and  faint,  my  heart" 

The  stranger's  land  is  fair; 
Yet  weary,  weary  still  thou  art — 

What  find'st  thou  wanting  there? 

What  wanting?— all,  ohl  all  I  love  I 

Am  I  not  lonely  here  ? 
Through  a  fair  land  in  sooth  I  rove 

Yet  what  like  home  is  dear? 

My  home!  oh!  thither  would  I  fly 
Where  the  free  air  is  sweet. 

My  father's  voice,  my  mother's  eye 
My  own  wild  hills  to  greet. 

My  hills  with  all  their  soaring  steeps, 
With  all  their  glariers  bright, 

Where  in  his  joy  the  chamois  leaps, 
Mocking  the  hunter's  might. 

Oh  !  but  to  hear  the  herd-bell's  sound, 
When  shepherds  lead  the  way 

Up  the  high  Alps,  and  children  bound, 
And  not  a  lamb  will  stay  I 

Oh  !  but  to  climb  the  uplands  free. 
And,  where  the  pure  streams  foam, 

By  the  blue  shining  lake,  to  see, 
Once  more,  my  hamlet-home  I 

Here,  no  familiar  look  I  trace  ; 

I  touch  no  friendly  hand  ; 
No  child  laughs  kindly  in  my  face — 

As  in  my  own  bright  land  1— 


MONUMENTAL  INSCRIPTION 

Elle  etait  du  monde,  ou  lei  plus  bella  chows 

Onl  It  pin  destin  ; 
Et  Row,  elle  a  dure,  ce  que  durant  let  roM, 

L'eipace  d'un  matin. 


EARTH  !  guard  what  here  we  lay  in  holy  trust ; 

That  which  hath  left  our  home  a  darken'd  place, 
Wanting  the  form,  the  smile,  now  veil'd  with  dust, 

The  light  departed  with  our  loveliest  face. 
Yet  from  thy  bonds  undying  hope  springs  free — 
We  have  but  lent  our  beautiful  to  thee. 

But  thou,  oh  Heaven !  keep  !  keep  what  The u  hast 

taken, 

And  with  our  treasure  keep  our  hearts  on  high, 
The  spirit  meek,  and  yet  by  pain  unshaken, 

The  faith,  the  love,  the  lofty  constancy, 
Guide  us  where  these  are  with  our  sister  flown— 
They  were  of  Thee,  and  tbou  hast  claim'd  thine 
own! 


176 


HEMANS      PO-EMS. 


A  THOUGHT  OF  THE  ROSE. 


Rota,  Rnia  !  per  che  sulla  tua  belta 
Seoipre  e  tcritta  quesU  paroli. 


MorU. 


How  much  of  memory  dwells  amidst  thy  bloom, 
Rose!  ever  wearing  beauty  for  thy  dower  I 

The  bridal  day— the  festival — the  tomb —  . 
Thou   hast  thy   part  in   each,  thou  stateliest 
flower ! 

Therefore  with  thy  soft  breath  come  floating  by 
A  thousand  images  of  love  and  grief, 

Dreams,  fill'd  with  tokens  of  mortality, 
Deep  thoughts  of  all  things  beautiful  and  brief. 


Rose  t  for  the  banquet  pather'd,  and  the  .tier ; 

Rose  !  colour'*!  now  by  human  hope  or  pain  ; 
Surely  where  death  is  not— nor  change,  nor  fear, 

Yet  may  we  meet  tliee.  Joy's  own  flower,  ugai.-i 


STANZAS. 

CROWN  ye  the  brave !  crown  ye  the  brave  I 

As  through  your  streets  they  ride, 
And  the  sunbeams  dance  on  the  polish'd  anna 

Of  the  warriors,  side  by  side; 
Shower  on  them  your  sweetest  flowers, 

Let  the  air  ring  with  their  praise. 
For  they  come  from  a  far  and  foreign  land. 

The  standard  of  war  to  raise' 

Crown  ye  the  brave  !  crown  ye  the  brave ! 

They  have  heard  wirh  proud  disdain, 
That  a  tyrant  seeks  your  beautiful  land 

To  bind  in  his  iron  chain  ; 
And  now  they  come  with  hearts  and  arms. 

To  the  land  that  will  be  free, 
With  their  blood  to  give  in  the  cause  of  those 

Who  tight  for  their  liberty ! 

Crown  ye  the  brave  I  crown  ye  the  brave  I 

As  they  wend  them  from  the  shore. 
For  many  of  those  who  ride  gaily  now. 

Ye  never  shall  look  on  more; 
Amid  the  battle's  fiercest  rage, 

Unnoticed  and  unblest; 
Woe  for  the  forms  on  the  bloody  field. 

That  will  sink  to  endless  rest. 


TO   THE    SEA. 

THOO  glorious  sea  !  more  pleasing  far 
When  all  thy  waters  are  at  rust, 

And  noonday  sun,  or  midnight  star 
Is  shining  on  thy  waveless  breast. 

More  pleasing  far,  than  when  the  wingc 
Of  stormy  winds  are  o'er  thee  spread. 

And  every  billowy  mountain  flings 
Aloft  to  heaven  its  foaming  head. 

Yet  is  the  very  tempest  dear. 

Whose  mighty  voice  but  tells  of  the*  • 
For,  wild,  or  calm,  or  far  or  near, 

I  love  thee  still,  thou  glorious  aea  I 


232 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  VOICE  OF  SPRING. 


I  COME  !  1  come  !  ye  have  call'd  me  long, 
I  come  o'er  the  mountains  with  fiffht  and  song! 
Ye  may  trace  my  step  o'er  the  wakening  earth, 
By  the  winds  which  tell  of  tho  violet's  liirth 
By  the  primrose  stars  in  the  shadowy  grass, 
By  the  green  leaves  opening  as  1  pass. 

1   have  br  allied  on  the  south,  and  the  chestnut 

flowers 

By  thousands  have  1>  irst  from  the  forest-bowers, 
And  th  •  ancient  proves,  and  Ihe  fallen  fanes. 
Are  veil'd  with  wreaths  on  Italian  plains; 
—  But  it  is  not  for  me,  in  my  hour  of  hlonni. 
To  speak  of  the  ruin  01   the  tomb! 

1  have  1<  ok'd  o'er  the  hills  of  the  stormy  north, 
And  the  larch  has  hung  all  his  tassels  forth. 
The  fisher  is  out  on  the  sunny  sea, 
And  the  reindeer  bounds  o'er  the  pastures  free, 
And  the  pine  has  a  fringe  of  softer  green, 
And  the  moss  looks  bright,  where  my  foot  hath 
been. 

1   have  sent   through  the  wood-paths  a  glowing 

sigh, 

And  call'd  out  each  voice  of  the  deep-blue  sky  ; 
From  the  night-bird's  lay  through  the  starry  time, 
In  the  groves  of  the  soft  Hesperian  clime, 
To  the  swan's  wild  note  by  the  Iceland  lakes, 
When  the  dark  fir-branr.h  into  verdure  breaks. 

Prom  the  streams  and  founts  I    have  loosed  the 

chain. 

They  are  sweeping  on  to  the  silvery  mnin, 
They  are  flashing  down  from  the  mountain  brows, 
They  are  flinging  spray  o'er  the  forest-boughs, 
They  are  bursting  fresh  from  their  sparry  caves. 
And  the  earth  resounds  with  the  joy  of  waves! 

Come  forth,  O  ye  children  of  gladness,  come  I 
Where  the  violets  lie  may  be  now  your  home. 
Ye  of  the  rose  lip  and  the  dew-bright  eye, 
And  the  boundless  footsteps  to  meet  me,  fly  1 
With  the  lyre,  and  the  wreath,  and  the  joyous 

lay, 
Come  fortli  to  the  sunshine,  I  may  not  stay. 

Away  from  the  dwellings  of  care-worn  men. 
The  waters  are  sparkling  in  grove  and  glen! 
Away  from  the  chamber  and  sullen  hearth, 
The  young  leaves  are  dancing  in  breezy  mirth  1 
Their  light  stems  thrill  to  the  wild-wood  strains, 
And  youth  is  abroad  in  my  green  domains. 

But  ye— ye  are  changed  since  ye  met  me  last ! 
There    is  something   bright  from  your  features 

pass'd ! 

There  is  that  come  over  your  brow  and  eye. 
Which  speaks  of  a  world  where  the  flowers  must 

die! 

— Ye  smile  !  but  your  smile  hath  a  dimness  yet — 
Oh!  what  have  ye  look'd  on  since  last  we  met? 

Ye  are  changed,  ye  are  changed  ! — an.'  I  see  not 

here 

All  whom  I  saw  in  the  vanish'd  year; 
There  were  graceful    heads   with   their   ringlets 

bright, 

Which  toss'd  in  the  breeze  with  a  play  of  light, 
There    were  "yes   in   whose  glistening   laughter 

lay 
No  faint  remembrance  of  dull  decay  I 

There  were  steps   that  flew  o'er  the  cowslip's 

head, 

As  if  for  a  banquet  all  earth  was  spread; 
There  were  v<  icss  that  rung  through  the  sapphire 

.    sky, 

A*d  had  not  a  sound  of  mortality! 

Are  they  gone  ?  is  their  mirth  from  the  mountains 

pass'd  ? 
— Ye  have  looi'd  on  death  since  ye  met  me  last  I 


I  know  whence  the  shadow  comes  o'er  you  now, 
Ye  have  strewn  tlio  dust  on  the  sunny  brow  1 
Ye  have  given  the  lovely  to  earth's  embrace, 
She  hath  taken  the  fairest  of  beauty's  race, 
With  their  laughing  eyes-  and  their  festal  crown, 
They  are  gone  from  among  you  in  silence  down. 

They  are  gone  from  among  you,  the  young  aid 

fair. 

Ye  have  lost  the  gleam  of  their  shining  hair! 
—  But    I   know   of  a    land  where   there  falls   no 

blight, 

I  shall  find  them  there,  with  their  eyes  of  light ! 
Where  Death  'midst  the  blooms  of  the  morn  may 

dwell, 
I  tarry  no  longer — farewell,  farewell  I 

The  summer  is  coining,  on  soft  winds  borne. 
Ye  may  press  the  grape,  ye  may  bind  the  corn  ' 
For  me  I  depart  to  a  brighter  shore, 
Ye  are  mark'd  by  care,  ye  are  mine  no  more. 
I  go  where  the  loved  who  have  left  you  dwell. 
And  the  flowers  are  not   Death's— fare   ye  well, 
farewell  I 


SUOUKSTED  nv  CHANTRKY'S  STATUE  or  I  »BT 

LOUISA     RUSSELL. 


THOU  art  a  thing  on  our  dreams  to  rise, 
'Midst  the  echoes  of  long-lost  melodies, 
And  to  tling  bright  dew  from  the  morning  back, 
Fair  form  on  each  image  of  childhood's  track. 

Thou  art  a  thing  to  recall  the  hours, 

When  the  love  of  our  souls  was  on  leaves  and 

flowers, 
When  a  world  was  our  own  in  some  dim  sweet 

grove, 
And  treasure  untold  in  one  captive  dove. 

Are  they  gone?  can  we  think  it,  while  tktu  art 

there, 

Thou  joyous  child  with  the  clustering  hair? 
(s  it  not  Spring  that  indeed  breathes  free 
And  fresh  o'er  each  thought,  while  we  gaze  on 

thee? 


To  have  met  the  joy  of  thy  speaking  face, 
To  have  felt  the  spell  of  thy  breezy  grace, 
To  have  linger'd  before  thee,  and  turn'd  ant! 

borne 
One  vision  away  of  the  cloudless  morn. 


THE  VAUDOIS  VALLEY& 


YES,  thou  hast  met  the  sun's  last  smile, 
From  the  haunted  hills  of  It, me; 

Ry  many  a  bright  ^Egean  isle, 
Thou  hast  seen  the  billows  foam  ; 

From  the  silence  of  the  Pyramid 
Thou  hast  watc.h'd  the  solemn  flow 

Of  the  Nile,  that  with  its  waters  hid 
The  ancient  realm  below. 

Thy  heart  hath  burn'd  as  shepherds  sung 

Some  wild  and  warlike  strain, 
Where  the  Moorish  horn  once  proudly  rung 

Through  the  pealing  hills  of  Spain  : 

And  o'er  the  lonely  Grecian  streams 
Thou  hast  heard  the  laurels  moan, 

With  a  sound  yet  murmuring  in  thy  dr.  am» 
Of  the  glory  that  is  gone. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


239 


But  go  thou  to  the  pnstnral  vales 
Of  the  Alpine  mountains  old, 

If  thou  woutilst  hear  immortal  tales, 
By  the  wind's  deep  whispers  told  I 

Go,  if  thou  lovest  the  soil  to  tread, 
Where  man  hath  nobly  striven. 

And  life,  like  incense,  hath  been  shed, 
An  <irT;ring  unto  heaven. 


ics. 


"*or  o'er  the  snows,  and  round  the  pint 

Hath  swept  a  noble  flood ; 
The  nurture  of  the  peasant's  vines 

Hath  been  the  martyr's  blood! 

A  spirit,  stronger  than  the  sword, 

And  loftier  than  despair, 
Through  all  the  heroic  region  pour'd, 

Breathes  in  the  generous  air. 

A  memory  clings  to  every  steep 

Of  long-enduring  faith, 
And  the  sounding  streams  glad  record  keep 

Of  courage  unto  death. 

Ask  of  the  peasant  where  his  sires 

For  truth  and  freedom  bled, 
Ask,  where  were  lit  the  torturing  fires. 

Where  lay  the  holy  dead ; 

And  he  will  tell  thee,  all  around, 

On  fount,  and  turf,  and  stone. 
Far  as  the  chamois'  foot  can  bound, 

Their  ashes  have  been  sown  ! 

Go,  when  the  sabbath  bell  is  heard  * 

Up  through  the  wilds  to  float, 
When  the  dark  old  woods  and  caves  are  stiir'd 

To  gladness  by  the  note ; 

When  for  li.  along  their  thousand  rills, 

The  mo  intain  people  come. 
Join  thou  their  worship  on  those  hills 

Of  glorious  martyrdom. 

And  while  the  song  of  praise  ascends. 

And  while  the  torrent's  voice 
Like  t.ie  swell  of  many  an  organ  blends, 

Then  let  thy  soul  rejoice ! 

Rejoice,  that  human  heart,  through  scorn, 
Through  shame,  through  death,  made  strong, 

Before  the  rocks  and  heavens  have  borne 
Witness  of  God  so  long  1 


CHRISTS  AGONY  IN  THE  GARDEN 


HE  knelt — the  Saviour  knelt  and  pray'd. 

When  but  His  Father's  eye 
Look'd  through  the  lonely  garden's  shade. 

On  that  dread  agony ! 
The  Lord  of  all,  above,  beneath, 
Was  bow'd  with  sorrow  unto  'eatf 

The  eun  set  in  a  tearful  hour 

The  skies  might  well  grow  nun, 
When  this  mortality  had  power 

So  to  o'ershadow  Him! 

When  He  who  gave  man's  breath  must  know 
The  very  depth  of  human  woe. 

He  knew  them  all — the  doubt,  the  strife. 

The  faint  perplexing  dread, 
The  mists  that  hanj  o'er  parting  life. 

All  darken '(I  ronr.  1  his  head! 
And  the  Deliverer  knelt  to  pray — 
Vet  pass'd  it  not,  that  cup,  away. 

*See  'Gilley's  Researches  among  the  mountains  of  Piedmont,* 
for  an  interesting  description  of  a  sabbath  day  in  the  upper  region! 
of  the  Vaudois.  The  inhabitants  of  tlu.se  Pro'estant  valleys,  who, 
like  the  Swiss,  repair  with  their  flocks  and  herds  to  the  summits  of 
the  hills,  during  the  summer,  are  followed  thither  by  their  pastors, 
and  at  that  p-ason  of  the  year,  assemble  on  that  etcred  day,  to  wor 
•hip  in  the  ojjea  air. 


It  pass'd  not— though  the  stormy  wave 

Had  sunk  beneath  Ins  tread; 
It  pass'd  not — though  to  Him  the  grave 

Had  yielded  up  its  dead. 
But  there  was  sent  him,  from  01.  high 
A  gift  of  strength,  for  man  to  die.* 

And  was  His  mortal  hour  beset 

With  anguish  and  dismay  ? 
—  How  may  we  meet  our  conflict  yet. 

In  the  dark  narrow  way  ? 
How,  but  through  Him,  that  path  who  trod? 
Save,  or  we  perish,  Son  of  GoJ  I 


ON  A  LEAF  FROM  THE  TOMB  OF  VIRGIL 


AND  was  thy  home,  pale  wither'd  thing. 

Beneath  the  rich  blue  southern  sky  ? 
Wert  thou  a  nursling  of  the  spring, 
The  winds  and  suns  of  glorious  Italy? 

Those  suns  in  golden  light,  e'en  now, 
Look'd  o'er  the  poet's  lovely  grave, 
Those  winds  are  breathing  soft,  but  thou, 
Answering    their  whisper,  there   no  more   shall 
wave. 

The  flowers,  o'er  Posilippo's  brow, 

May  duster  in  their  purple  bloom, 

But  on  the  o'ershadowing  ilex-bough. 

Thy  breezy  place  is  void,  by  Virgil's  tomb. 

Thy  place  is  void— oh!  none  on  earth. 
This  crowded  earth,  may  so  remain. 
Save  that  which  souls  of  loftiest  birth 
Leave  when   they  part,  their   brighter  home  to 
gain. 

Another  leaf,  ere  now,  hath  sprung 

On  the  green  stem  which  once  was  thine — 
When  shall  another  strain  be  sung 
Like    his    whose    dust    hath   made  that  spot  a 
shrine? 


THE  ANGELS'  CALL. 


"  Hark  !  they  whisper !  angels  my 
Sister  spirit,  come  away  !" 


COME  to  the  land  of  peace  I 
Come  where  the  tempest  hath  no  longer  sway, 
The  shadow  passes  from  the  soul  away, 

The  sounds  of  weeping  cease  I 

Fear  hath  no  dwelling  there! 
Come  to  the  mingling  of  repose  fend  love. 
Breathed  by  the  silent  spirit  of  the  dove 

Through  the  celestial  air  1 

Come  to  the  bright  and  blest 
And  crown'd  for  ever!— "midst  that  shining  band, 
Gather'd  to  heaven's  own  wreath  from  every  land. 

Thy  spirit  shall  find  rest  I 

Thou  hast  been  long  alone: 
Come  to  thy  mother !—  on  the  sabbath  shore, 
The  heart  that  rock'd  thy  childhood,  hack,  one* 

more 
Shall  take  its  wearied  one. 

In  silence  wert  thou  left ! 
Come  to  thy  sisters  ! — joyously  again 
All  the  home-voices,  blest  in  one  sweet  strain, 

Shall  greet  their  long-bereft. 

Over  thine  orphan  head 

The  storm  hath  swept  as  o'er  a  willow's  bough  I 
Come  to  thy  father! — it  is  finish'd  now  ; 

Thy  tears  have  all  been  shed. 

*  "  And  there  appeared  an  anjel  unto  lam  from  Heaven,  strength 
•Ding  him."— St.  Luke,  xlli.  43. 


234 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  thy  divine  abode 

Change  finds  no  pathway,  mem'ry  no  dark  trace, 
And,  oh  I  bright  victory — diath  by  love  no  place  : 

Come,  Spirit,  to  thy  God ! 


THE  VOICE  OF  GOD 

'  I  heard  thy  voice  in  the  O'a>  jen,  and  I  was  afraid.' 

AMIDST  the  'Iirillinr  I'.a^es,  thy  voice 

At  evening'?  tall  diev/  near; 
Father!  and  did  not  it.a-.i  rejoice 

That  blessed  sound  to  hear  ?   . 

Did  not  his  heart  within  him  bum, 

Touch'd  by  thes.ilcmn  tone} 
Not  so  I  for,  never  to  return, 

Its  purity  was  gone. 

Therefore,  'midst  holy  stream  and  bower, 

His  spirit  shook  with  t»ead, 
And  call'd  the  cedars,  .r  chut  hour, 

To  veil  his  conscious  head. 

Oh  I  in  each  win'.,  rach  fountain  flow, 

Each  wiiispe;  of  .he  shf.de, 
Grant  me,  my  G-..1,  thy  voice  to  know, 

And  not  to  be  alraid  t 


THE   SPELL. 

THERE  's  such  a  glory  on  thy  cheek, 
And  such  i  magic  power  around  thee 

That,  if  I  would,  I  could  not  break 
The  spell  with  which  thine  eyes  have  bound  ma 

Though  all  my  stubborn  heart  rebel 
Against  the  thraldom  of  thy  frown. 

The  tameless  spirit  them  canst  quell, 
And  keep  the  bursting  madness  down. 

vainly  struggle  to  be  free ; 
I  rouse  that  withering  pride  in  vain. 
Whose  blight  might  change  my  love  for  thee 
To  fiery  hate  or  cold  disdain. 

.  loathe  my  very  soul,  that  bears 
To  drink  thy  poisonous  love-draughts  up, 

Until  my  frenzied  spirit  swears 
To  dash  to  earth  the  dazzling  cup. 

Yet  every  effort  of  my  heart 

To  cast  thee  off  but  draws  thee  nearer, 
And  rage  and  agony  impart 

A  venom-charm,  that  makes  thee  dearer. 


THE  SHEPHERD  POET  OF  THE  ALPS. 


"  God  five  him  reverence  of  lawa, 

Yet  stirring  blood  in  freedom'!  cause— 

A  spirit  to  his  rocks  akin, 

The  eye  of  the  hawk,  and  the  fire  therein  !' 


SINOINO  of  the  free  blue  sky, 
And  the  wild  flower  glens  that  lie 
Far  amidst  the  ancient  hills, 
Which  the  fountain  music  fills; 
Singing  of  the  snow-peaks  bright, 
And  the  royal  eagle's  flight, 
And  the  courage  and  the  grace 
Foster'd  by  the  chamois-cluue  ; 
In  his  fetters  day  by  day, 
So  the  shepherd-poet  lay. 


Wherefore,  from  a  dungeon-cell 
Did  those  notes  of  freedom  swell, 
Breathing  sadness  not  their  own, 
Forth  with  every  Alpine  tone? 
Wherefore  can  a  tyrant  ear 
Brook  the  mountain  winds  to  hear, 
When  each  blast  goes  pealing  by 
With  a  song  of  Liberty  I 

Darkly  hung  the  oppressor's  hand 

O'er  the  shepherd-poet's  land. 

Sounding  there  the  waters  gush'd, 

While  the  lip  of  man  was  hush'd  ; 

There  the  falcon  pierced  the  cloud, 

While  the  fiery  heart  was  bow'd; 

But  this  might  not  long  endure, 

Where  the  mountain-homes  were  pure, 

And  a  valiant  voice  arose, 

Thrilling  all  the  silent  snows; 

His — now  singing  far  and  lone. 

Where  the  young  breeze  ne'er  was  known  ( 

Singing  of  the  glad  blue  sky. 

Wildly— and  how  muurnfufly  ! 

Are  none  but  the  wind  and  the  lammer-geyer, 
To  be  free  where  the  hills  unto  heaven  aspire  1 
Is  the  soul  of  song  from  the  deep  glens  past. 
Now  that  their  poet  is  chain'd  at  last  ? 
Think  of  the  mountains,  and  deem  not  so ! 
Soon  shall  each  blast  like  a  clarion  blowl 
Yes !  though  forbidden  be  every  word. 
Wherewith  that  spirit  the  Alps  hath  stirr'd. 
Yet  e'en  as  a  buried  stream  through  earth 
Rolls  on  to  another  and  brighter  birth, 
So  shall  the  voice  that  hath  seem'd  to  die. 
Burs,  forth  with  the  anthem  of  Liberty  I 

And  another  power  is  moving 

In  a  bosom  fondly  loving; 

Oh  !  a  sister's  heart  is  de«p, 

And  her  spirit 's  strong  to  keep 

Each  light  link  of  early  hours. 

All  sweet  scents  of  childhood's  flowers ' 

Thus  each  lay  by  Erni  sung, 

Rocks  and  crystal  caves  among, 

Or  beneath  the  linden-leaves, 

Or  the  cabin's  vine-hung  eaves. 

Rapid  though  as  bird-notes  gushing. 

Transient  as  a  wan  cheek's  flushing. 

Each  in  young  Teresa's  breast 

Left  its  fiery  words  impress'd  ; 

Treasured  there  lay  every  line 

As  a  rich  book  on  a  hidden  shrine; 

Fair  was  that  lone  girl,  and  meek. 

With  a  pale  transparent  cheek 

And  a  deep-fringed  violet  eye, 

Seeking  in  sweet  shade  to  lie ; 

Or,  if  raised  to  glance  above, 

Dim  with  its  own  dews  of  love; 

And  a  pure  Madonna  brow. 

And  a  silver  voice,  and  low. 

Like  the  echo  of  a  flute, 

E'en  the  last  though  all  be  mute. 

But  a  loftier  soul  was  seen 

In  the  orphan  sister's  mien. 

From  that  hour  when  chains  defiled 

Him,  the  high  Alps'  noble  child; 

Tones  in  her  quivering  voice  awoke. 

As  if  a  harp  of  battle  spoke; 

Light,  that  seem'd  born  of  an  eagle's  neat, 

Flash'd  from  her  soft  eyes  unrepress'd; 

And  her  form,  like  a  spreading  water  flower. 

When   its  frail  cup  swells   with  a  sudden 

snower, 

Seem'd  all  dilated  with  love  and  pride, 
And  grief  for  that  brother,  her  young  heart*! 

guide. 

Well  might  they  love  !— those  two  had  grown. 
Orphans  together  and  alone  ; 
The  silence  of  the  Alpine  sky 
Had  hush'd  their  hearts  to  piety ; 
The  turf,  o'er  their  dead  mother  laid. 
Had  been  their  altar  when  they  pray'd ; 
There,  more  in  tenderness  than  woo, 
The  stars  had  seen  their  young  tears  flow 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  clouds,   n  spirit-like  descent. 
Their  deep  thoughts  by  one  touch  had  blent, 
And  the  wild  storms  link'd  them  to  each  other 
How  dear  can  peril  make  a  brother  1 

Now  is  their  hearth  a  forsaken  spot, 

The  vine  waves  unpruned  o'er  their  mountain  cot, 

Away,  in  that  holy  alien  ion's  might, 

The  maiden  is  gone,  like  a  breeze  of  the  night; 

She  is  gone  forth  alone,  but  her  lighted  face, 

Filling  with  soul  ev'ry  secret  place, 

Hath  a  dower  from  lieaven,  and  a  gift  of  sway, 

To  arouse  brave  hearts  in  its  hidden  way 

Like  the  sudden  flinging  forth  on  high, 

Of  a  banner  that  starteth  silently  ! 

She  hath  wander'd  through  a  hamlet-vale, 

Telling  its  children  her  brother's  tale; 

And  tiie  strains,  by  his  spirit  pour'd  away. 

Freely  as  fountains  might  shower  their  spray, 

From  her  fervent  lip  a  new  life  have  caught 

And  a  power  to  kindle  yet  bolder  thought: 

Whi  e  sometimes,  a  melody  all  her  own, 

Like  a  gush  of  tears  in  its  plaintive  tone, 

May  be  heard  'midst  the  lonely  rocks  to  flow, 

Clear  through  the  water-chimes—clear,  yet  low 

'•  Thou'rt  not  where  wild  flowers  wave, 
O'er  crag  and  sparry  cave ; 
Thou'rt  not  where  pines  are  sounding, 
Or  joyous  torrents' bounding. 

Alas,  my  brother  I 

"  Thou  'rt  not  where  green,  on  high, 
The  brighter  pastures  lie  ; 
E'en  those  thine  own  wild  places, 
Bear  of  our  chain  dark  traces ; 

Alas,  my  brother ! 

"  Far  hath  the  sunbeam  spread, 
Nor  found  thy  lonely  bed  ; 
Long  hath  the  fresh  wind  sought  thee, 
Nor  one  sweet  whisper  brought  thee — 
Alas,  my  brother! 

"  Thou,  that  for  joy  wert  born. 
Free  as  the  winds  of  morn, 
Will  aught  thy  young  life  cherish. 
Where  the  Alpine  rose  would  perish? 
Alas !  my  brother  I 

"Canst  thou  be  singing  still, 

As  once  on  every  hill  ? 

Is  not  thy  soul  forsaken, 

And  the  bright  gift  from  I  nee  taken  1 

Alas,  alas,  my  brother!" 

And  was  the  bright  gift  from  the  captive  fled  1 
f.ike  the  fire  on  his  hearth,  was  his  spirit  dead  1 
Not  so  !— but  as  rooted  in  stillness  deep. 
The  pure  stream-lily  its  place  will  keep, 
Though  its  tearful  urns  to  the  blast  may  quiver. 
While  the  red  waves  rush  down  the  foaming  river, 
3o  freedom's  faith  in  his  bosom  lay. 
Trembling,  yet  not  to  be  borne  away! 
He  thought  of  thu  Alps  and  their  breezy  air. 
And  felt  that  his  country  no  chains  might  bear ; 
He  thought  of  the  hunter's  haughty  life. 
And  knew  there  must  yet  be  noble  strife  ; 
But,  oh !  when  he  thought  of  that  orphan  maid, 
Hi?  high  heart  melted— he  wept  and  pray'd! 
For  he  saw  her  not  as  she  moved  e'en  then, 
A  wakener  of  heroes  in  every  glen, 
With  a  glance  inspired,  which  no  grief  could  tame 
Bearing  on  Hope  like  a  torch's  flame, 
While  the  strengthening  voice  of  mighty  wrongs 
Gave  echoes  back  to  her  thrilling  songs ; 
But  his  dreams  were  fill'd  by  a  haunting  tone, 
S;ul  as  a  sleeping  infant's  moan  ; 
And  his  soul  was  pierced  by  a  mournful  eye, 
Which  look'd  on  it— oh!  how  beseechingly  I 
And  there  floated  past  him  a  fragile  form, 
With  a  willowy  droop,  as  beneath  the  storm. 
Till  wakening  in  anguish,  his  faint  heart  strove 
In  vain  with  its  burden  of  helpless  love  1 
—Thus  woke  the  dreamer  one  weary  nifjht— 
There  flash'd  through  his  dungeon  a  swift  strong 
light: 


He  sprang  up — he  cliinb'd  to  the  grating  bars, 

—  It  was  not:1the  rising  of  moon  or  stars, 

But  a  signal  flame  from  a  neak  of  snow, 

Rock'd  through  the  dark  skies  to  and  frol 

There  shut  forth  another— another  still, 

A  hu nil i..'d  answers  of  hill  to  hill ! 

Tossing  like  pines  in  the  tempest's  way, 

Joyously,  wildly,  the  bright  spires  play. 

And  each  is  hail'd  with  a  pealing  shout, 

For  the  high  Alps  waving  their  banners  outl 

Erni,  young  Ernil  the  land  has  risen  ! 

— Alas  !  to  be  lone  in  thy  narrow  prison ! 

Those  free  streamers  glancing,  and  thou  not  there, 

— Is  the  moment  of  rapture,  or  fierce  despair? 

— Hark !  there  's  a  tumult  that  shakes  his  cell  I 

At  the  gates  of  the  mountain  citadel ! 

Hark !   a  clear  voice  through  the  rude  sound* 

ringing, 
— Doth  he  know  the  strain,  and  the  wild  sweet 

singing? 

"  There  may  not  long  be  fetters. 
Where  the  cloud  is  in  earth's  array. 
And  the  bright  floods  leap  from  cave  and  steep. 
Like  a  hunter  on  the  prey  I 

"  There  may  not  long  be  fetters 
Where  the  white  Alps  have  their  towers, 
(Into  eagle  homes,  if  the  arrow  comes, 
The  chain  is  not  for  ours!" 

It  is  she ! — She  is  come  like  a  day-spring  beam, 
She  that  so  mournfully  shadow'd  his  dream  I 
With  her  shining  eyes  and  her  buoyant  form, 
She  is  come!  her  tears  on  his  cheek  are  warm. 
And  oh!  the  thrill  in  that  weeping  voice! 
"  My  brother,  my  brother !  come  forth,  rejoice." 

— Poet !  the  land  of  thy  love  is  free, 
—Sister !  thy  brother  is  won  by  tiiee  I 


THE  RELEASE  OF  TASSO. 


THERE  came  a  bard  to  Rome ;  he  brought  a  lyre 
Of  sounds  to  peal  through  Rome's  triumphant  sky, 
To  mourn  a  hero  on  his  funeral  pyre, 
Or  greet  a  conqueror  with  its  war-notes  high. 
For  on  each  chord  had  fallen  the  gift  of  fire. 
The  living  breath  of  power  and  victory- 
Yet  he,  its  lord,  the  sovereign  city's  guest, 
Sigh'd  but  to  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest. 

He  brought  a  spirit,  whose  ethereal  birth 
Was  of  the  loftiest,  and  whose  haunts  had  been 
Amidst  the  marvels  and  the  pomps  of  earth. 
Wild  fairy  bowers,  and  groves  of  deathless  green. 
And   fields  where  mail-clad  bosoms  prove  their 

worth, 

When  flashing  swords  lift  up  the  stormy  scene- 
He  brought  a  weary  heart,  a  wasted  frame,— 
The  child  of  visions  from  a  dunge-wi  came. 

On  the  blue  waters,  as  in  joy  they  sweep. 

With  starlight  floating  o'er  their  swells  and  falls. 

On  the  blue  waters  of  the  Adrian  deep, 

His  numbers  had  been  sung — and  in  the  halls. 

Where,  through  the  rich  foliage,  if  a  sunbeam 

peep, 
It  seems  Heaven's  wakening  to  the  sculptured 

walls, — 

Had  princes  listened  to  those  lofty  strains. 
While  the  high  soul  they  burst  from  pined  in 

chains. 

And  in  the  summer  gardens,  where  the  spray 
Of  founts,  far  glancing  from  their  marble  bed, 
Rains  on  the  flowery  myrtles  in  its  play. 
And  the  sweet  limes,  and  glassy  leaves  that  spread 
Round  the  deep  golden  citrons— o'er  his  lay 
Dark  eyes,  dark,  soft,  Italian  eyes,  had  shed 
Warm  tears,  fast  glittering  in   that  sun,  whose 

light 
Was  a  forbidden  glory  to  his  sight. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Oh !  if  it  be  that  wizard  sign  and  spell, 
And  talisman,  had  power  of  old  to  bind, 
In  the  dark  chambers  of  some  cavern-cell, 
Or  knotted  oak,  the  spirits  of  the  wind, 
Things  of  the  lightning-pinion,  wont  to  dwell 
High  o'er  the  reach  of  eagles,  and  to  find 
Joy  "in  the  rush  of  storms — even  such  a  doom 
Was  that  high  minstrel's,  in  his  dungeon-gloom. 

But  he  was  free  at  lastl — the  glorious  land 
Of  the  white  Alps  and  pinc-crown'd  Apennines, 
Along  whose  shore  the  sapphire  seas  expand, 
And  the  wastes  teem  with  myrtle,  and  the  shrines 
Of  long-forgotten  gods,  from  nature's  hand 
Receive  bright  offerings  still ;  with  all  its  vines, 
And  rocks,  and  ruins,  clear  before  him  lay — 
The  seal  was  taken  from  the  founts  of  day. 

The  winds  came  o'er  his  cneek  ;  the  soft  winds, 

blending 

All  summer-sounds  and  odours  in  their  sigh ; 
The  orange  groves  waved  round,  the  hills  were 

sending 
Their  bright  streams  down,  the  free  birds  darting 

by, 

And  the  blue  festal  heavens  above  him  bending. 
As  if  to  fold  a  world  where  none  could  die! 
And  who  was  he  that  look'd  upon  these  things  ? 
— If  but  of  earth,  yet  one  whose  thoughts  were 

wings 

To  bear  him  o'er  creation!  and  whose  mind 
Was  as  an  air-harp,  wakening  to  the  sway 
Of  sunny  nature's  breathings  unconfined. 
With  all  the  mystic  harmonies  that  lay 
Far  in  the  slumber  of  its  chords  enshrined, 
Till  the  light  breeze  went  thrilling  on  its  way. 
— There  was  no  sound  that  wander'd  through  the 

sky. 
Rut  told  him  secrets  in  its  melody. 

Was  the  deep  forest  lonely  unto  him, 

With  all  its  whispering  leaves  ?    Each  dell  and 

glade 

Teem'd  with  such  forms  as  on  the  moss-clad  brim 
Of  fountains,  in  their  starry  grottoes  play'd, 
Seen,  by  the  Greek  of  yore,  through  twilight  dim, 
Or  misty  noontide  in  the  laurel  shade. 
— There  is  no  solitude  on  earth  so  deep 
As  that  where  man  decrees  that  man  should 

weep  I 

But,  oh  t  the  life  in  nature's  green  domains, 

The  breathing  sense  of  joy  I   where  flowers  are 

springing 

By  starry  thousands,  on  the  slopes  and  plains, 
And  the  gray  rocks — and  all  the  arch'd  woods  ring- 
ing. 

And  the  young  branches  trembling  to  the  strains 
Of  wild   born   creatures,   through  the  sunshine 

winging 

Their  fearless  flight — and  sylvan  echoes  round, 
Mingling  all  tones  to  one  Eolian  sound. 

And  the  glad  voice,  the  laughing  voice  of  streams, 

And  the  low  cadence  of  the  silvery  sea, 

And   reed-notes  from  the  mountains,  and  the 

beams 

Of  the  warm  sun — all  these  are  for  the  free  I 
And  they  were  his  once  more,  the  bard  whose 

dreams 

Their  spirit  «till  had  haunted — Could  it  be 
That  he  had  borne  the  chain?— oh  I  who  shall 

dare 
To  say  how  much  man's  heart  uncrush'd  may 

bear? 

So  deep  a  root  hath  hone !  but  woe  for  this, 

Our  frail  mortality,  that  aught  so  bright, 

So  almost  burthen'd  with  excess  of  bliss. 

As  the  rich  hour  which  back  to  summer's  light 

Calls  the  worn  captive,  with  the  gentle  kiss 

Of  winds,  and  gush  of  waters,  and  the  sight 

Of  the  green  earth,  must  so  be  bought  with  yean 

Of  the  heart's  fever,  parching  up  its  tears  • 


And  feeding  a  slow  Are  on  all  its  powers, 
Until  the  boon  for  which  we  gasp  in  vain, 
If  hardly  won  at  length,  too  late  made  our«, 
When  the  soul's  wing  is  broken,  comes  like  rain 
Withheld  till  evening,  on  the  stately  flowers 
Which  wither'd  in  the  noontide,  ne'er  again 
To  lift  their  heads  in  glory.—  So  doth  Earth 
Breathe  on  her  gifts  and  melt  away  their  worth. 

The  sailor  dies  in  sig.it  of  that  green  shore 
Whose  fields,  in  slumbering  beauty,  seem  J  to  lie 
On  the  deep's  foam,  amidst  its  hollow  roar 
Call'd  up  to  sunlight  by  his  fantasy— 
And  when  the  shining  desert-mists,  that  wore 
The  lake's  bright  semblance,  have  been  all  pass'd 

by, 

The  pilgrim  sinks  beside  the  fountain  wave, 
Which  flashes  from  its  rock,  too  late  to  save. 

Or  if  we  live,  if  that,  too  dearly  bought, 

And  made  too  precious  by  long  hopes  and  fears, 

Remains   our   own—  love,   darken'd    and   o'er 

wrought 

By  memory  of  privation,  love  which  wears 
And  casts  o'er  life  a  troubled  hue  of  thought, 
Becomes  the  shadow  of  our  closing  years, 
Making  it  almost  misery  to  possess 
Aught  watch'd  with  such  unquiet  tenderness. 

Such  unto  him,  the  bard,  the  worn  and  wild, 
And  sick  with  hope  deferr'd,  from  whom  the  sky, 
With  all  its  clouds  in  burning  glory  piled, 
Had  been  shut  out  by  long  captivity  ; 
Such  freedom  was  to  Tasso.  —  As  a  child 
Is  to  the  mother,  whose  foreboding  eye, 
In  its  too  radiant  glance  from  day  to  day, 
Reads  that  which  calls  the  brightest  first  away. 

And  he  became  a  wanderer—in  whose  breast 
Wild  fear,  which,  e'en  when  every  sense  dotn 

sleep, 

Clings  to  the  burning  heart,  a  wakeful  guest, 
Sat  brooding  as  a  spirit,  raised  to  keep 
Its  gloomy  vigil  of  intense  unrest 
O'er  treasures,  burtheiing  life,  and  buried  deep 
In  cavern  tomb,  and  sought,  through  shades  and 

stealth, 
By  some  pale  mortal,  trembling  at  his  wealth. 

But  woe  for  those  who  trample  o'er  a  mind  ! 

A  deathless  thing.—  They  know  not  what  they  do, 

Or  what  they  deal  with!  —  Man   perchance  may 

bind 

The  flower  his  step  hath  bruised  ;  or  light  anew 
The  torch  he  quenches;  or  to  music  wind 
Again  the  lyre-string  from  his  touch  that  flew  — 
But  for  the  soul  !—  oh  !  tremble,  and  beware 
To  lay  rude  hands  upon  God's  mysteries  there  I 

For  blindness  wraps  that  world  —  our  touch  may 

turn 

Some  balance,  fearfully  and  darkly  hung, 
Or  put  out  some  bright  spark,  whose  ray  should 

burn 

To  point  the  way  a  thousand  rocks  among— 
Or  break  some  subtle  chain,  which  none  discern, 
Though  binding  down  the  terrible,  the  strong, 
Th'  o'ersweeping  passions  —  which  to  loose  on  life, 
Is  to  set  free  the  elements  for  strife  ! 


Who  then  to  power  and  glory  shall  restore 

That  which  our  evil  rashness  hath  undone  1 

Who  unto  mystic  harmony  once  more 

Attune  those  viewless  chords?  —  There  is  but  One! 

He  that  through  dust  the  stream  of  life  can  pour, 

The  mighty  and  the  merciful  alone  I 

—Yet   oft    His   paths   have   midnight  for  theft 

shade  — 
He  leaves  to  man  the  ruin  man  hat.i  made  1— 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WOKKS. 


237 


THE  PRAYER  FOR  LIFE. 


O  SUNSHINE  and  fair  earth 

Sweet  is  your  kindly  mirth 
Angel  of  death !  yet,  yet  awhile  delay — 

Too  sad  it  is  to  part. 

Thus  in  my  spring  of  heart, 
With  all  the  light  and  laughter  of  the  day. 

For  me  the  falling  leaf 

Touches  no  chord  of  grief, 
No  dark  worm  in  the  rose's  bosom  lies: 

Not  one  triumphal  tone, 

One  hue  of  hope  is  gone 
From  song  or  bloom  beneath  the  Bummer  skies 

Call  me  not  hence  away. 

Death,  death  !  ere  yet  decay 
Over  the  golden  hours  one  shade  has  thrown; 

The  poesy  that  dwells 

Deep  in  green  woods  and  dells. 
Still  to  my  spirit  speaks  of  joy  alone. 

Yet  not  for  this,  O  death  ! 

Not  for  the  vernal  hreath 
Of  winds,  that  shake  forth  music  from  the  tree*; 

Not  for  the  splendour  jrm.u 

To  night's  dark  regal  heaven. 
Spoiler!  I  ask  thee  not  reprieve  for  these. 

But  for  the  happy  love 

Whose  light,  where'er  I  rove, 
Kindles  all  nature  to  a  sudden  smile, 

Shedding  on  branch  and  flower 

A  rainbow-tinted  shower 
Of  richer  life— spare,  spare  me  yet  awhile  • 

Too  soon,  too  fast  thou 'rt  cornel 

Too  beautiful  is  home, 
A  home  of  gentle  voices  and  kind  eyes! 

And  I  the  loved  of  all, 

On  whom  fond  blessings  (all 
Prom  every  lip— oh !  wilt  thou  rend  such  ties? 

Sweet  sisters!  weave  a  chain 

My  spirit  to  detain; 
Hold  me  to  earth  with  strong  affection  back! 

Bind  me  with  mighty  love 

Unto  the  stream,  the  grove, 
Our  daily  paths— our  life's  familiar  track! 

Stay  with  me— gird  me  round! 

Your  voices  hear  a  sound 
Of  hope — a  light  comes  with  you  and  departs: 

Hush  my  soui's  boding  knell, 

That  murmurs  of  farewell! 
How  can  I  leave  this  ring  of  kindest  hearts! 

Death!  grave!  and  are  there  those 

That  woo  your  dark  repose 
Midst  the  rich  beauty  of  the  glowing  earth? 

Surely  about  then!  lies 

No  world  of  loving  eyes — 
Leave  me,  oh  leave  me  unto  home  and  nearth ! 


THE  BATTLE-FIELD. 


I  LOOK'D  on  the  field  where  the  battle  was  spread, 
When   thousands  stood   forth  in   their  glancing 

array, 
And  the  beam  from  the  steel  of  the  valiant  was 

shed 
Through  the  dun  rolling  clouds  that  o'erehadow'd 

the  fray. 

1  SBW  the  dark  forest  of  lances  appear, 

As  the  ears  of    the  harvest  unnumber'd  they 

stood, 

I  heard  the  stern  shout  as  the  foemen  drew  near, 
_iiki  the  storm,  that  lays  low  the  proud  pines  of 

the  wood. 


Afar,  the  harsh  notes  of  the  war-drum  were 

roll'd, 

Uprousing  the  wolf  from  the  depth  of  his  lair; 
On  high  to  the  gust  stream'd  the  banner's  red  fold, 
O'er  the  death-close  of  hate,   and   the  scowl  of 

despair. 

I  look'd  on  the  field  of  contention  again, 

When  the  sabre  was  sheathed  and  the  tempest 

had  past; 

The  wild  weed  and  thistle  grew  rank  on  the  plain. 
And  the  fern  softly  sigh'd  in  the  low  wailing  bias' 

Unmoved  lay  the  lake  in  its  hour  of  repose, 
And  bright  shone  the  stars  through  the  sky's  deep 

en'd  blue  ; 

And  sweetly  the  song  of  the  night-bird  arose, 
Where  the  foxglove  lay  gemm'd  with  its  pearl- 
drops  of  dew. 

But  where  swept  the  ranks  of  that  dark  frowning 

host, 
As  the  ocean   in  might  —  as  the  storm-cloud  in 

speed  I 

Where  now  were  the  thunders  of  victory's  boast — 
The  slayer's  dead  wrath  and  the  strength  of  the 

steed ! 

Not  a  time-wasted  cross,  not  a  mouldering  stone, 
To  mark  the  lone  scene  of  their  shame  or  theif 

pride ; 

One  grass-cover'd  mound  told  the  traveller  alone, 
Where  thousands  lay  down  in  their  anguish  and 

died! 

Oh!  Glory!  behold  thy  famed  guerdon's  extent. 
For  this  toil  thy  slaves  through  then  earth-wast- 

ing  lot ; 
A  name  like  the  mist,  when  night-beams  are 

spent — 
A  grave  with  its  tenants  unwept  and  forgot! 


THINGS  THAT  CHANGE. 

KNOW'ST  thou  that  seas  are  sweeping 

Where  cities  once  have  been? 
When  the  calm  wave  is  sleeping, 

Their  towers  may  yet  be  seen  ; 
Far  down  below  the  glassy  tide 
Man's  dwelling  's  where  his  voice  hath  died ! 

Know'st  thou  that  flocks  are  feeding 

Above  the  tombs  of  old, 
Which  kings,  th.jir  armies  leading, 

Have  linger'd  to  behold? 
A  short,  smooth  greensward  o'er  them  spread 
Is  all  that  marks  where  heroes  bled. 

Know'st  thou  that  now  the  token 

Of  temples  once  renown'd, 
la  but  a  pillar,  broken, 

With  grass  and  wall-flowers  erown'dt 
And  the  lone  serpent  rears  her  young 
Where  the  triumphant  lyre  hath  sung  I 

Well,  well,  I  know  the  story 

Of  ages  pass'd  away, 
And  the  mournful  wrecks  that  glory 

Has  left  to  dull  decay. 
But  thou  hast  yet  a  tale  to  learn 
More  full  of  warnings  sad  and  stern. 

Thy  pensive  eye  but  ranges 

O'er  ruin'd  fane  and  hall, 
Dh  !  the  deep  soul  has  changes 

More  sorrowful  than  all. 
Talk  not,  while  these  before  thee  throng, 
Of  silence  in  the  place  of  song. 

See  scorn — where  love  has  perish'd; 

Distrust — where  friendship  grew! 
Pride— where  once  nature  cherish'd 

All  tender  thoughts  and  true  ! 
And  shadows  of  oblivion  thrown 
O'er  every  trace  of  idols  gone. 


233 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Weep  not  for  tombs  far  scattor'd, 
For  temples  prostrate  laid— 

In  thine  own  heart  lie  shattcr'd 
The  altars  it  had  made. 

Go,  sound  its  depths  in  doubt  and  fear  I 
Heap  up  no  more  its  treasures  here. 


A  THOUGHT  OF  THE  FUTURE. 


DREAMER  I  and  would*!  thou  know 
If  love  goes  with  us  to  the  viewless  bourne  f 
Wouldat  thou  bear  hence  th*  unfathom'd  source  of 
woe 

In  thy  heart's  lonely  urn  7 

What  hath  it  been  to  thee. 
That  power,  the  dweller  of  thy  secret  breast  ? 
A  dove,  sent  forth  across  a  stormy  sea, 

Finding  no  place  of  rest : 

A  precious  odour  cast 

On  a  wild  stream,  that  recklessly  swept  by; 
A  voice  of  music  utter'd  to  the  blast, 

And  winning  no  reply. 

Even  were  such  answer  thine, 

VVouldst  thou  be  blest  t  —  too  sleepless,  too  pro- 
found. 

Are  thy  soul's  hidden  springs ;  there  is  no  line 
Their  depth  of  love  to  sound. 

Do  not  words  faint  and  fail, 
When  thou  wouldst  fill  them  with  that  ocean's 

power? 
As  thine  own  cheek  before  high  thoughts  grows 

pale 
In  some  o'erwhelming  power  ? 

Doth  not  thy  frail  form  sink 
Beneath  the  chain  that  binds  thee  to  one  spot. 
When  thy  heart  strives,  held  down  by  many  a  link, 

Where  thy  beloved  are  not? 

Is  not  thy  very  soul 

OfX  in  the  gush  of  powerless  blessing  shed, 
Till  a  vain  tenderness,  beyond  control, 

Bows  down  thy  weary  head  ? 

And  wouldst  thou  bear  all  this, 
The  burden  and  the  shadow  of  thy  life, 
To  trouble  the  blue  skies  of  cloudless  bliss, 

With  earthly  feelings'  strife  ? 

Not  thus,  not  thus— oh  no  I 
Not  veil'd  and  mantled  with  dim  clouds  of  care, 
That  spirit  of  my  soul  should  with  me  go, 

To  breathe  celestial  air: 

But  as  the  sky-lark  springs 
To  its  own  sphere,  where  night  afar  is  driven, 
As  to  its  place  the  flower-seed  findeth  wings, 

So  must  love  mount  to  Heaven  1 

Vainly  it  shall  not  strive 
There  on  weak  words  to  pour  a  stream  of  fire; 
Thoaght  unto  thought  shall  kindling  impulse  give, 

As  light  might  wake  a  lyre. 

And,  oh!  its  blessings  there 
Ehower'd  like  rich  balsam  forth  on  some  dear  head. 
Powerless  no  more,  a  gift  shall  surely  bear 

A  joy  of  sunlight  shed  I 

Let  me,  then,  let  me  dream 
That  love  goes  with  us  to  the  shore  unknown ; 
Bo  o'er  its  burning  tears  a  heavenly  gleam 

In  mercy  shall  be  thrown  I 


A  FAREWELL  SONG. 

I  eo,  sweet  friends !  yet  think  of  me 
When  spring's  low  voice  awakes  the  flowers. 

For  we  have  wander'd  far  and  free 
In  those  bright  hours— the  violet's  hours  I 

I  go — but  when  you  pause  to  hear 
From  distant  hills,  the  sabbath-bell 

On  summer's  wind  float  silvery  clear. 
Think  of  me  then— I  loved  it  well  I 

Forget  me  not  around  your  hearth, 
When  clearly  shines  the  ruddy  blaze; 

For  dear  hath  been  its  hour  of  mirth 
To  me,  sweet  friends  !  in  other  days. 

And,  oh !  when  music's  voice  is  heard 
To  melt  in  strains  of  parting  woe  I 

When  hearts  to  tender  thought  are  stirr'd, 
Think  on  ine  then !  I  go,  I  go  I 


THE  BELL  AT  SEA, 


The  dangerous  islet  called  the  Bell  Rock,  on  the  eoas 
of  Fife,  used  formerly  to  be  marked  only  by  a  befl 
which  was  so  placed  as  to  be  swung  by  the  motion  of 
the  waves,  when  the  tide  rose  above  the  rock.  A  light 
house  has  since  been  erected  there. 

WHEN  the  tide's  billowy  swell 

Had  reach'd  its  height, 
Then  toll'd  the  rock's  lone  bell, 

Sternly  by  night. 

Far  over  cliff  and  purge 

Swept  tho  deep  sound, 
Making  each  wild  wind's  dirge 

Still  more-  profound. 

Yet  that  funereal  tone 

The  sailor  bless'd. 
Steering  through  darkness  on. 

With  fearless  breast. 

E'en  so  may  we,  that  float 

On  life's  wide  sea, 
Welcome  each  warning  note, 

Stern  though  it  bet 


A  THOUGHT  OF  HOME  AT  SEA. 


Tis  lone  on  the  waters, 
When  eve's  mournful  bell 

Sends  forth  to  the  sunset 
A  note  of  farewell  I 

When,  borne  with  the  shadows. 
And  winds  as  they  sweep, 

There  comes  a  fond  memory 
Of  Home  o'er  the  deep  1 

When  the  wing  of  the  sea-bird 

Is  turn'd  to  her  nest, 
And  the  heart  of  the  sailor 

To  all  he  loves  best. 

Tis  lone  on  the  waters — 
That  hour  hath  a  spell 

To  bring  back  «we*t  voices, 
And  words  of  farewell! 


THE  COTTAGE  GIRL, 

A  CHILD  beside  a  haiiuct's  fount  at  play, 

Her  fair  face  laupliins  at  the  sunny  day ; 

The  cheerful  girl  her  labour  leaves  awhile, 

To  gaze  on  Heaven's  and  Earth's  unsullied  unit* 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


231 


Hei  happy  dog  looks  on  her  dimpled  cheeks, 
And  of  his  joy  in  his  own  language  speaks. 
A  gush  of  waters  tremulously  bright, 
Kindling  the  air  to  gladness  with  their  light ; 
And  a  soft  gloom  beyond,  of  summer  trees, 
Darkening  the  turf,  and  shadow'd  o'er  by  these, 
A  low,  dim,  woodland  cottage  : — this  was  all ! 

What  had  the  scene  for  memory  to  recall, 
With  a  fond  look  of  love?    What  secret  spell 
With  the  heart's  pictures  made  its  image  dwell? 
What  but  the  spirit  of  the  joyous  child, 
That  freshly  forth  o'er  stream  and  verdure  smiled 
Casting  upon  the  common  things  of  earth 
A  brightness,  born  and  gone  with  infant  mirth  I 


DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT 


DEATH  found  strange  beauty  on  that  cherub  brow 
And  dash'dit  out.— There  was  a  tint  of  rose 
On  cheek  and  lip,— he  louph'd  the  veins  with  ice, 
And  the  rose  faded ;— forth  from  those  blue  eyes 
There  spoke  a  wishful  tenderness,— a  doubt 
Whether  to  grieve  or  sleep,  which  innocence 
Alone  can  wear.    With  ruthless  haste  he  bound 
The  silken  fringes  of  their  curtaining  lids 

For  ever ;  there  had  been  a  murmuring  sound. 
With  which  the  babe  would  claim  its  mother's  ear, 
Charming  her  even  to  tears.    The  spoiler  set 
His  seal  of  silence,—  hut  there  beam'd  a  smile 

80  fix'd  and  holy  from  that  marble  brow 

Death  gazed,  and  left  it  there  ;— he  dared  not  (teal 

.The  signet-ring  of  Heaven. 


MAN  AND  WOMAN 


M  — —  Women  act  their  parti 
When  they  do  make  their  order'd  houses  know  them. 
Men  must  be  busy  out  of  doors,  must  stir 
The  city  ;  yea,  make  the  great  world  avrar* 
That  tbey  are  in  it ;  for  the  mastery 
Of  which  they  race  and  wrestle." 

Znotefef. 


WARRIOR  1  whose  image  on  thy  tomb, 

With  shield  and  crested  head. 
Sleeps  proudly  in  the  purple  gloom 

By  the  staia'tl  window  shed  ; 
The  records  of  thy  name  and  race 

Have  faded  from  the  stone, 
Yet  through  a  cloud  of  years  I  trace 

What  thou  hast  been  and  done. 

A  banner  from  its  flashing  spear 

Flung  out  o'er  many  a  fight ; 
A  war-cry  ringing  fur  and  clear, 

And  strong  to  turn  the  flight; 
An  ann  that  bravely  bore  the  lance 

On  for  the  holy  shrine, 
A  haughty  heart  and  kingly  glance — 

Chief  I  were  not  these  things  thine  I 

A  lofty  place  where  leaders  sate 

Around  the  council  board  ; 
In  festive  halls  a  chair  of  state, 

When  the  blood-red  wine  was  pour'd; 
A  name  that  drew  a  prouder  tone 

From  herald,  harp,  and  bard; 
— Surely  these  things  were  all  thine  own, 

So  Ixtcist  thou  thy  reward  I 

Woman !  whose  sculptured  form  at  rest 

By  the  arm'd  knight  is  laid. 
With  meek  hands  folded  o'er  thy  breast, 

hi  matron  robes  array'd; 


What  was  thy  tale?— Oh,  gentle  mate 

Of  him  the  bold  and  free. 
Bound  unto  his  victorious  fate, 

What  Lard  hath  sung  of  l/iee? 

He  woo'd  a  bright  and  burning  star; 

Thine  was  the  void,  the  gloom. 
The  straining  eye  that  follow'd  far 

His  oft-receding  plume; 
The  heart-sick  listening  while  his  steed 

Sent  echoes  on  the  breeze  ; 
The  pang — but  when  did  fame  take  heed 

Of  griefs  obscure  as  these? 

Thy  silent  and  secluded  hours, 

Through  many  a  lonely  day 
While  bending  o'er  thy  broider'd  flowers. 

With  spirit  far  away ; 
Thy  weeping  midnight  prayers  for  him 

Who  fought  on  Syrian  plains; 
Thy  watchings  till  the  torch  grew  dim, — 

These  fill  no  minstrel  strains. 

A  still  sad  life  was  thine! — long  yean. 

With  tasks  unguerdon'd  fraught, 
Deep,  quiet  love,  submissive  tears, 

Vigils  of  anxious  thought; 
Prayers  at  the  cross  in  fervour  poui'd 

Alms  to  the  pilgrims  given ; 
O  happy,  happier  than  thy  lord, 

In  that  lone  path  to  heaven  I 


THE  RUINED  HOUSE. 


No  dower  of  storied  song  is  thine, 

O  desolate  abode  ! 
Forth  from  thy  gates  no  glittering  line 

Of  lance  and  spear  hath  llow'd: 
Banners  of  knighthood  have  not  flung 

Proud  drapery  o'er  thy  walls, 
Nor  bugle-notes  to  battle  rung 

Through  thy  resounding  halls. 

Nor  have  rich  bowers  of  Pleasaunee  Iwre 

By  courtly  hands  been  dress'd, 
For  princes,  fruin  the  chase  of  deer, 

Under  green  leaves  to  rest : 
Only  some  rose,  yet  lingering  bright 

Beside  thy  casements  lone. 
Tells  where  the  spirit  of  delight 

Hath  dwelt,  and  now  is  gone. 

Yet  minstrel  tale  of  harp  and  sword, 

And  sovereign  beauty's  lot, 
House  of  quench'd  light  and  silent  board  '• 

For  me  thou  needest  not. 
It  is  enough  to  know  that  here, 

Where  thoughtfully  I  stand. 
Sorrow  and  love,  and  hope  and  fear 

Have  link'd  one  kindred  band. 


Thou  bindest  me  with  mighty  spells  I 

— A  solemnizing  breath, 
A  presence  all  around  thee  dwells 

Of  human  life  and  death. 
I  need  but  pluck  yon  garden-flower 

From  where  the  wild  weeds  rise, 
To  wake,  with  strange  and  sudden  power 

A  thousand  sympathies  I 

Thou  hast  heard  many  sounds,  thou  hearth 

Deserted  now  by  all ! 
Voices  at  eve  here  met  in  mirth, 

Which  eve  may  ne'er  recall. 
Youth's  buoyant  step,  and  woman's  tone, 

And  childhood's  language  glee, 
And  song  and  prayer  have  well  Iteen  Known 

Hearth  of  the  dead  !  to  thee. 


240 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thou  hast  heard  blessings  fondly  pour'd 

("pon  the  infant  head, 
As  if  in  every  fervent  word 

The  living  soul  were  shed : 
Thou  hast  seen  partings — such  aa  bear 

The  bloom  from  life  away — 
Alas  !  for  love  in  changeful  air. 

Where  naught  beloved  can  stay  I 

Here,  by  the  restless  bed  of  pain. 

The  vigil  hath  been  kept, 
Till  sunrise,  bright  with  hope  in  vain, 

Burst  forth  on  eyes  that  wept: 
Here  hath  been  felt  the  hush,  the  gloom, 

The  breathless  influence  Plied 
Through  the  dim  dwelling,  from  the  room 

Wherein  reposed  the  dead. 

The  seat  left  void,  the  missing  face, 

Have  here  been  mark'd  and  mourn'd; 
And  time  linth  fiird  the  vacant  place, 

And  gladness  hath  return'd : 
Till  from  the  narrowing  household  chain 

The  links  dropp'd,  one  by  one; 
And  homeward  hither  o'er  the  main 

Came  the  spring-birds  alone. 

Is  there  not  cause  then — cause  for  thought, 

Fix'd  eye,  and  lingering  tread, 
Where,  with  their  thousand  mysteries  fraught 

E'en  lowliest  hearts  have  bled  ! 
Where,  in  its  ever  haunting  thirst 

For  draughts  of  purer  day, 
Man's  soul  with  fitful  strength  hath  burst 

The  clouds  that  wrapt  its  way  7 

Holy  to  human  nature  seems 

The  lone-forsaken  spot ! 
To  deep  affections,  tender  dreamt, 

Hopes  of  a  brighter  lot ! 
Therefore  in  silent  reverence  here, 

Hearth  of  the  dead  1  I  stand, 
Where  joy  and  sorrow,  smile  and  tear. 

Have  link'd  one  kindred  band. 


SONG. 


"  Oh,  cut  thoa  not 

Affection  from  tnee !  in  thu  bitter  world 
Hold  to  thy  heart  that  only  treasure  fait, 
Watch— guard  il— suffer  not  a  breath  to  iim 
The  bright  gem's  purity  !" 


lr  thou  hast  crush'd  a  flower, 

The  root  may  not  be  blighted; 
If  thou  hast  quench'd  a  lamp, 

Once  more  it  may  be  lighted: 
But  on  thy  harp  or  on  thy  lute, 

The  string  which  thou  hast  broken 
Shall  never  in  sweet  sound  again 

Give  to  thy  touch  a  token  I 

If  thou  hast  loosed  a  bird. 

Whose  voice  of  song  could  cheer  thee, 
Still,  still  he  may  be  won 

From  the  skies  to  warble  near  thee ; 
But  if  upon  the  troubled  sea 

Thou  hast  thrown  a  gem  unheeded, 
Hope  not  that  wind  or  wave  shall  bring 

The  treasure  back  when  needed. 

If  thou  hast  bruised  a  vine, 

The  summer's  breath  is  healing, 
And  its  cluster  yet  may  glow 

Through  the  leaves  their  bloom  revealing 
But  if  thou  hast  a  cup  o'erthrown, 

W'th  a  bright  draught  fill'd— oh!  never 
Shall  earth  give  hack  that  lavish'd  wealth 

To  cool  thy  parch'd  lip's  fever  1 

The  heart  is  like  that  cup. 

If  thou  waste  the  love  it  bore  thee. 
And  like  that  jewel  gone, 

Which  the  deep  will  not  restore  thee; 
And  like  that  striii"  of  harp  or  lute 

Whence  'he  sweet  sound  is  scalter'd}— 
—Gently,  on  !  gently  touch  the  chordr 

So  soon  for  ever  shatter'd! 


THE  RECALL. 


••Alas!  the  kind,  the  |  layful.  and  the  gay, 
They  who  have  gladden'd  their  domestic  board, 
Ai>4  cbeer'd  the  winter  hearth,  do  they  return  f 

Joanna  JDatilu, 


COME  home !— there  is  a  sorrowing  breath 

In  music  since  we  went ; 
And  the  early  flower-scents  wander  by, 

With  mournful  memories  blent : 
The  sounds  of  every  household  voice 

Are  grown  more  sad  and  deep. 
And  the  sweet  word — brother — wakes  a  wish 

To  turn  aside  and  weep. 

O  ye  beloved,  come  home  !— the  hour 

Of  many  a  greeting  tone. 
The  time  of  hearth-light  and  of  song, 

Returns— anil  ye  are  gone ! 
And  darkly,  heavily  it  falls 

On  the  forsaken  room, 
Burdening  the  heart  with  tenderness 

That  deepens  'midst  the  gloom. 

Where  finds  it  you,  our  wandering  one* 

With  all  your  boyhood's  glee 
Untamed,  beneath  the  desert's  palm. 

Or  on  the  lone  mid  si-a  ? 
"Mid  stormy  hills  of  buttles  old, 

Or  where  dark  rivers  foam  ? 
Oh!  life  is  dim  wlicre  ye  are  not — 

Back,  ye  beloved !  come  home  1 

Come  with  the  leaves  and  winds  of  spring, 

And  swift  birds  o'er  the  main  I 
Our  love  is  grown  too  sorrowful. 

Bring  us  its  youth  again  ! 
Bring  the  glad  tones  to  music  back — 

—Still,  still  your  liomc  is  fair ; 
The  spirit  of  your  sunny  life 

Alone  is  wanting  there! 


THE   SUMMONS. 


THE  vesper-bell,  from  church  and  tower. 

Had  sent  its  dying  sound ; 
And  the  household,  in  the  hush  of  eve. 

Were  met,  their  porch  around. 

A  voice  rang  through  the  olive-wood,  with  a  sud- 
den triumph's  power— 
"We  rise  on  all  our  hills!  come  forth!  'tis  thy 

country's  gathering  hour! 
There 's  a  gleam  of  spears  by  every  stream,  in  each 

old  battle  dell- 
Come  forth,  young  Juan  !  bid  thy  home  a  brief  and 
proud  farewell." 

Then  the  father  gave  his  son  the  sword 
Which  a  hundred  fi<;lits  had  seen — 

"  Away  I  and  bear  it  back,  my  boy  1 
All  that  it  still  hath  been  !" 

•'Haste,  haste  !  the  hunters  of  the  foe  are  up,  and 

who  shall  stand 
The  lion-like  awakening  of  the  roused  indignant 

land? 
Our  chase  shall  sound  through  each  defile  where 

swept  the  clarion's  blast, 
With  the  flying  footsteps  of  the  Moor  in  stormy 

ages  past  " 

Then  the  mother  kiss'd  her  son,  with  tears 

That  o'er  his  dark  locks  fell : 
•'  I  bless,  I  bless  thee  o'er  and  o'er 

Yet  stay  thee  not— farewell !" 

"  One  moment!  but  one  moment  give  to  parting 

thought  or  word ! 
It  is  no  time  for  woman's  tears  when  manhood'* 

heart  is  stirr'd. 
Bear  but  the  memory  of  thy  love  about  thee  in 

the  fight, 
To  breathe  upon  the  avenging  sword  a  speil  of 

keener  might." 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  a  maiden's  fond  adieu  was  heard. 

Though  deep,  yet  brief  and  low  : 
"  In  the  vigil,  in  the  conflict,  love! 

My  prayer  shall  with  thee  go  !" 

"Come  forth!  come  as  the  torrent  comes  when 

the  winter's  chain  is  burst! 
Bo   rushes  on    the  land's   revenge,  in   night  and 

silence  nursed — 
The  night  is  pass'd,  the  silence  o'er — on  all  our 

hills  we  rise — 
We  wait  thee,  youth !  sleep,  dream  no  more  I  the  | 

voice  of  battle  cries." 

There  were  sad  hearts  in  a  darken'd  home, 
When  the  brave  had  left  their  bower ! 

But  the  strength  of  prayer  and  sacrifice 
Was  with  them  in  that  hour. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  A   FRIEND  AND 
RELATIVE. 


"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see 
God."  

WB  miss  thy  voice  while  early  flowers  are  blow- 

ing, 
And   the  first  flush  of  blossom  clothes  each 

bough, 

And  the  spring  sunshine  round  our  home  is  glow- 
ing, 

Soft  as  thy  smile— thou  would'st  be  with  u« 
now! 

W ii.h  us ! — we  wrong  thee  by  the  earthly  thought — 
Could  our  fond  gaze  but  follow  where  thou  art. 

Well  might  the  glories  of  this  world  seem  naught 
To  the  one  promise  given  the  pure  in  heart. 

Yet  wert  thou  blest  e  en  here— oh !  ever  blest 
In    thine  own    sunny   thoughts  a/id   tranquil 
faith  ; 

The  silent  joy  that  still  o'erflow'd  thy  breast, 
Needed  but  guarding  from  all  change,  by  death. 

So  is  it  seal'd  to  pence !— on  thy  clear  brow 
Never  was  care  one  fleeting  shade  to  cast. 

And  thy  calm  days  in  brightness  were  to  flow, 
A  holy  stream  untroubled  to  the  last  1 

Farewell!  thy  life  hath  left  surviving  love 
A  wealth  of  records  and  sweet  "  feelings  given." 

From  sorrow's  heart  the  faint  ness  to  remove, 
By   whispers   breathing   "  less  of  earth   than 
heaven." 

Thus  rests  thy  spirit  still  on  those  with  whom 
Thy  step  the  path  of  joyous  duty  trod, 

Bidding  them  make  an  altar  of  thy  tomb, 

Where  chasten'd  thought  may  ofler  praise  to 
God! 


EVENING  SONG  OF  THE  TYROLESE 
PEASANTS.* 


COME  to  the  sunset  tree  I 
The  day  is  past  and  gone , 

The  woodman's  axe  lies  free. 
And  the  reaper's  work  is  done. 

The  twilight  star  to  heaven, 
And  the  summer  dew  to  flower*. 

And  rest  to  us  is  given 
By  the  cool  soft  evening  hour*. 


•  "  The  loved  hour  of  reproe  it  linking.  Let  in  come  to  the  nn- 
•*  tree."— See  Captain  Sherer'a  iutemtiaf  "  Note,  and  ReflKtioM 
4vrinf  a  Ramble  in  Germany." 

16 


Sweet  is  the  hoi:r  of  rest  I 
Pleasant  the  wind's  low  sigh. 

And  the  gleaming  of  the  west, 
And  the  turf  whereon  we  lie. 

When  the  burden  and  the  heat 

Of  labour's  task  are  o'er, 
And  kindly  voices  greet 

The  tired  one  at  his  door. 

Come  to  the  sunset  tree! 

The  day  is  past  and  gone ; 
The  woodman's  n.ve  lies  free. 

And  the  rea|>er's  work  is  done. 

Yes;  tuneful  is  the  sound 

That  dwells  in  whispering  boughj  ; 
Welcome  the  freshness  round, 

And  the  gale  that  fans  our  brow*. 

But  rest  more  sweet  and  still 
Than  ever  night-fall  gave. 

Our  longing  hearts  shall  fill 
In  the  world  beyond  the  grave. 

There  shall  no  tempest  blow. 
No  scorching  noontide  heat; 

There  shall  be  no  more  snow, 
No  weary  wandering  feet. 

And  we  lift  our  trusting  eyes. 
From  the  hills  our  fathers  trod. 

To  the  quiet  of  the  skies, 
To  the  Sabbath  of  our  God. 

Come  to  the  sunset  tree! 

The  day  is  past  and  gone ; 
The  woodman's  axe  lies  free. 

And  the  reaper's  work  is  done  I 


FRAGMENT. 


On,  what  is  Nature's  strength?  the  vacant  ejr« 
By  mind  deserted  hath  a  dread  reply; 
The  wild  delirious  laughter  of  despair, 
The  mirth  of  frenzy— seek  an  answer  there. 
— Weep  not,  sad  moralist,  o'er  desert  plains. 
Strew'd  with  the  wrecks  of  grandeur,  mouldering 

fanes. 

Arches  of  triumphs  long  with  weeds  o'ergrown. 
And  regal  cities— now  the  serpent's  own  ;— 
Earth  has  more  dreadful  ruins— one  lost  mind 
Whose  star  is  quench'd,  hath  lessons  for  mankind 
Of  deeper  import  than  each  prostrate  dome 
Mingling  its  marble  with  the  dust  of  Rome. 


THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  MARAH. 


"And  when  they  cnme  to  Marnh.  they  could  noti';ink 
of  the  waters  of  Marah,  for  they  were  bittcr 

"  And  the  people  murmured  against  Moses,  saying. 
What  shall  we  drink 7 

"And  he  cried  unto  the  Lord  ;  and  the  Lord  showed 
him  a  tree,  which  when  he  (mil  cast  into  the  waters,  the 
waters  were  made  sweet." Ezod.  xv.  23 — 25. 


WHERE  is  the  tree  the  prophet  threw 

Into  the  bitter  wave  ? 
Left  it  no  scion  where  it  grew. 

The  thirsting  soul  to  save? 

Hath  nature  lost  the  hidden  power 

Its  precious  foliage  shed? 
Is  there  no  distant  eastern  hower 

With  such  sweet  leaves  o'erspreadT 


KEMANS'  POETICAL 


Nay,  wherefore  ask  1— since  gifts  are  ours. 

Which  yet  may  well  imlme 
Earth's  many  troubled  founts  with  shower* 

Of  Heaven's  own  balmy  dew. 

Oh!  mingled  with  the  cup  of  grief. 

Let  faith's  deep  spirit  be  ; 
A ril  every  prayer  shall  win  a  leaf 

From  that  blest  healing  tree  ! 


HAUNTED  GROUND. 


"  Anil  flight,  withal,  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Rack  on  the  heart  (be  weight  which  it  would  fling 
Aaitte  fur  ever:— it  may  be  a  sound, 

A  (lower — a  leaf— the  ocean— which  mar  wound, 

Striking  the  electric  chain  wherewith  we  're  darkly  bound.* 


YES,  it  is  haunted—  this  quiet  scene, 
Pair  as  it  looks,  and  nil  sottly  green; 
Yet  fear  tlioii  not—  for  the  spell  is  thrown, 
And  the  might  of  the  shadow  on  me  alone. 

Are  thy  thoughts  wandering  to  elves  and  fays, 
And  spirits  that  dwell  where  the  water  plays? 
Oh  !  in  the  heart  there  are  stronger  powers, 
That  sway,  though  viewless,  this  world  of  ours! 

Have  I  not  lived  'midst  these  lonely  dells, 
And  loved,  and  sorrow'd,  and  heard  farewells, 
And  learn'd  in  my  own  deep  soul  to  look, 
And  tremble  before  that  mysterious  bx>k? 

Have  I  not,  under  these  whispering  leaves, 
Woven  such  dreams  as  the  young  heart  weaves? 
Whadows  —  yet  unto  which  life  seem'd  bound, 
And  is  it  not  —  is  it  not  haunted  ground? 

Must  I  not  hear  what  thou  hearcst  n.it, 
Troubling  the  air  of  the  sunny  spot  ? 
Os  there  not  something,  to  none  but  me, 
6H  by  the  rustling  of  every  tree  ? 


lieen  li«*re,  w'th  'ts  "ow  °f  thought; 
Ixive,—  with  its  passionate  visions  fraught; 
Death—  breathing  stillness  and  sadness  round— 
And  is  it  not  —  is  it  not  haunted  ground  ? 

Are  there  no  phantoms,  but  such  as  come 
Ry  night  from  the  darkness  that  wraps  the  tombf 
—  A  sound,  a  scent,  or  a  whispering  breeze, 
Can  summon  up  mightier  far  than  tl)«'se  I 

Rut  I  may  not  linger  amidst  them  here, 
Lovely  they  are,  and  yet  things  to  fear, 
Passing  and  leaving  a  weight  behind, 
And  a  thrill  on  the  chords  of  the  stricken  mind. 

Away,  away  t  that  my  soul  may  soar 

As  a  free  bird  of  blue  skies  once  more  I 

Here  from  its  wing  it  may  never  cast 

The  chain  by  those  spirits  brought  back  from  the 

past. 

Doubt  it  not—  smile  not—  but  go  thou  too, 
l«ook  on  the  scenes  where  thy  childhood  grew, 
Wherf  tlinu  hast  pray'd  at  thy  mother's  knee, 
Where  thou  hast  roved  with  thy  brethren  free; 

Go  thou  when  life  unto  thee  is  changed, 
Priends  thou  hast  loved  as  thy  soul  estranged 
When  from  the  idols  thy  heart  hath  made, 
Thou  hast  seen  the  colours  of  glory  fade; 

Oh!  painfully  then,  by  the  wind's  low  sigh 
By  the  voice  of  HIH  stroam,  by  the  flower-cup's  dye, 
lly  a  thousand  tokens  of  sight  and  sound, 
Thou   wilt  feel  thuu    art   treading   on    haunted 
ground. 


THE  IVY  OF  KENILWORTH, 


HEARD'ST  thou  what  the  ivy  sigh'd. 
Waving  where  all  else  hath  died. 
In  the  place  of  regal  mirth. 
Now  the  silent  Kenilworth  ? 

With  its  many  glistening  leaves. 
There  a  solemn  robe  it  weaves ; 
And  a  voice  is  in  each  fold, 
Like  au  oracle's  of  old. 

Heard'st  thou,  while  with  dews  of  nigkl, 
Shone  its  berries  darkly  bright, 
Y<;s  I  the  whisperer  seem'd  to  say, 
"All  things— all  things  pass  away  I 

"  Where  I  am,  the  harp  hath  rung 
Rii nners  and  proud  fields  among, 
And  the  blood-red  wine  flow'd  free, 
A 'i. I  the  fire  shot  sparks  of  glee. 

"  Where  I  am,  now  last  and  lone, 
(i  ii-enly  steps  have  come  and  gone; 
Gorgeous  masques  have  glided  by, 
Unto  rolling  harmony. 

"  Flung  from  fhese  illumined  towers. 
Light  hath  pierced  the  forest  bowers. 
Lake,  and  pool,  and  fount  have  been 
Kindled  by  their  midnight  sheen. 

"  Where  is  now  the  feasting  high  1 
Where  the  lordly  minstrelsy? 
Where  the  tourney's  ringing  speart 
— I  am  sole  and  silent  here. 

••  In  my  home  no  hearth  is  crown'd. 
Through  my  hall  no  wine  foams  round, 
By  my  gates  hath  ceased  the  lay — 
All  things— all  things  pass  away  !** 

Yes  I  thy  warning  voice  I  knew, 
Ivy!  and  its  tale  is  true: 
All  is  passing,  or  hath  pasa'd — 
Thou  thyself  must  perish  last  t 

Tet  my  secret  soul  replied, 
"  Surely  one  thing  shall  abide  , 
'Midst  the  wreck  of  ages,  one,— 
Heaven's  eternal  Word  alone  t" 


THE  CHILDE'S  DESTINY. 


"  And  none  did  love  him,— not  his  temara  drar,- 
But  pomp  and  power  alone  are  woman'i  can ; 
And  where  these  are,  light  Eros  finJi  a  frere." 


No  mistress  of  the  hidden  skill, 

No  wizard  gaunt  and  grim, 
Went  up  by  night  to  heath  or  hill. 

To  read  the  stars  for  him ; 
The  merriest  girl  in  all  the  land 

Of  vine-encircled  France, 
Bestow'd  upon  his  brow  and  hand 

Her  philosophic  glance : 
"  I  bind  thee  with  a  spell,"  said  she 

"  I  sign  thee  with  a  sign ; 
No  woman's  love  shall  linlit  on  the* 

No  woman's  heart  be  thine! 


44  And  trust  me,  't  is  not  that  thy 

Is  colourless  and  cold. 
Nor  that  thine  eye  is  slow  to  rpeak 

What  only  eyes  have  told ; 
For  many  a  cheek  of  paler  white 

Hath  blusird  with  passion's  kiss; 
And  many  an  nye  of  letter  lipht 

Hath  caught  its  fire  firm  hliss; 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Vet  while  the  rivers  seek  the  sea. 
And  wliili:  the  young  stars  chine, 

No  woman's  love  shall  liulit  on  thee, 
No  woman's  heart  he  thine  t 

••  And  't  is  not  that  thy  spirit,  awed 

By  beauty's  numbing  spell, 
Shrinks  from  the  force,  or  from  the  fraud 

Which  beauty  loves  so  well ; 
For  Ihon  hast  learn'd  to  watch  and  wake, 

Anil  swear  by  earth  anil  sky; 
And  limn  art  very  holil  to  lake 

What  we  must  still  deny; 
1  cannot  tell;  the  charm  was  wrought 

By  other  threidi  tlmn  mine, 
The 'lip*  are  lightly  begg'd  or  bought, 

The  heart  may  not  be  thine  1 

•Yet  thine  the  brightest  smile  shall  be 

That  ever  lienuly  wore. 
And  confidence  from  two  i.r  three, 

And  compliments  from  more  : 
Anil  one  shall  give— perchance  hath  given, 

What  only  is  not  love; 
Friendship,— oh!  such  as  saints  in  heaven 

Rain  on  us  from  above. 
If  she  shall  meet  thee  in  the  bower, 

Or  name  thee  in  the  shrine, 
Oh!  wear  the  ring,  anil  guard  the  flower 

Her  heart  may  not  be  thine  I 

"Go,  set  thy  boat  before  ,l ho  blast, 

Thy  breast  before  the  gun:— 
The  haven  shall  In-  reach'il  at  last, 

The  battle  shall  be  won  : 
Or  muse  upon  thy  country's  laws, 

Or  strike  thy  country's  lute; — 
And  patriot  hands  shall  sound  applause, 

And  lovely  lips  be  mute: 
Go,  dig  the  diamond  from  the  wave, 

The  treasure  from  the  mine; 
Enjoy  the  wreath,  the  ifoiil,  the  grave,— 

No  woman's  heart  is  thine  1 

"1  charm  thee  from  the  agony 

Which  others  feel  or  Iriirn  ; 
From  anger,  anil  from  jealousy, 

From  iloubt,  anil  from  disdain  : 
I  bid  thee  wear  the  scorn  of  years 

Upon  the  cheek  of  youth. 
And  curl  I  he  lip  at  passion's  tears, 

Anil  shake  the  head  at  truth: 
While  there  is  bliss  in  revelry, 

Forget  fill  ness  in  wine, 
Be  thou  from  woman's  love  as  free 

As  woman  is  from  thine  !" 


THE  SUBTERRANEAN  STREAM. 


"Thou  dream, 

Whnw  mtirce  it  inacccuifaly  profound, 
Wliillwr  do  thy  niv.t.  ricnn  waten  tend  ? 
—Thou  iuiaftat  my  life." 


DARKLY  thon  glides!  onward, 

Thou  deep  and  hidden  wave* 
The  laughing  sunshine  hath  not  'ook'd 

Inlo  thy  secret  cave. 

Thy  current  makes  no  music— 

A  hollow  sound  we  hear, 
A  m ii tiled  voice  of  mystery, 

And  know  that  thou  art  near. 

No  brighter  line  of  verdure 

Follows  thy  lonely  way ; 
No  fairy  moss,  or  lily's  cup, 

Is  freshen'd  by  thy  play. 

The  halcyon  doth  not  seek  thee, 
Her  glorious  wings  to  lave;          , 

Thou  know'st  no  tint  of  the  summer  sky, 
Thou  dark  and  hidden  wave! 


Yet  once  will  day  behold  thee, 

When  to  the  mighty  sea. 
Fresh  bursting  from  their  cavern'd  veins. 

Leap  thy  lone  waters  free. 

There  wilt  thou  greet  the  sunshine 

For  a  moment,  and  be  lost, 
With  all  thy  melancholy  sounds 

In  the  ocean's  billowy  host. 

Oh!  art  thou  not,  dark  river. 
Like  the  fearful  thoughts  untold, 

Which  haply  in  the  hush  of  night 
O'er  many  a  soul  have  roll'd  ? 

Those  earth-born  strange  misgivings — 
Who  hath  not  felt  their  power? 

Yet  who  hath  breathed  them  to  li^  friend, 
E'en  in  his  fondest  hour? 

They  hold  no  heart -communion, 

They  find  no  voice  in  song. 
They  dimly  follow  far  from  earth 

The  grave's  departed  throng. 

Wild  is  their  course,  and  lonely, 
And  fruitless  in  man's  breast ; 

The'y  come  and  go,  and  leave  no  trice 
Of  their  mysterious  quest. 

Yet  surely  must  their  wanderings 

At  length  he  like  thy  way; 
Their  shadows,  as  thy  waters  lost, 

In  one  bright  flood  of  day ! 


WOMAN  AND  FAME 


HAPPY— happier  far  than  thou. 
With  the  laurel  on  thy  brow ; 
She  that  makes  the  humblest  hearth 
Lovtly  but  to  one  on  earth. 

Thou  hast  a  charmed  cup,  O  Fame, 
A  draught  that  mantles  high. 

And  seems  to  lift  this  earthly  frame 
Above  mortality. 

Away!  to  me — a  woman— bring 

Sweet  water  from  affection's  spring. 

Thou  hast  green  laurel  leaves  that  twine 

Into  so  proud  a  wreath; 
For  that  resplendent  gifX  of  thine. 

Heroes  have  smiled  in  death. 
Give  me  from  some  kind  hand  a  flower. 
The  record  of  one  happy  hour  I 

Thou  hast  a  voice,  whose  thrilling  tone 
Can  bid  each  life-pulse  bent, 

As  when  a  trumpet's  note  hath  blown. 
Calling  the  brave  to  meet: 

But  mine,  let  mine— a  woman's  breast, 

By  words  of  home-born  love  be  bless'd, 

A  hollow  sound  is  in  thy  song, 

A  mockery  in  thine  eye, 
To  the  sick  heart  that  doth  but  long 

For  aid,  for  sympathy. 
For  kindly  looks  to  cheer  it  on. 
For  tender  accents  that  are  gone. 

Fame,  Fame!  thou  canst  not  be  the  stay 

Unto  the  drw|«Hig  reed. 
The  rooi  fresh  fountain  in  the  day 

Of  the  Mini's  feverish  need  : 
Where  must  the  lone  one  turn  or  fleet— 
Not  unto  thee,  oh  1  not  to  ihee  I 


THE  SLEEPER  OF  MARATHON. 

I  LAV  upon  the  solemn  plain 

And  by  the  funeral  mound, 
Where  those  who  died  not  there  in  rain. 

Their  place  of  sleep  had  found. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Twas  silent  where  the  free  blood  gush'd, 
When  Persia  came  array'd — 

Bo  many  u  voice  had  there  been  hush'd, 
So  many  a  footstep  stay'd. 

I  slumber'd  on  the  lonely  spot. 

So  sanctified  by  Death — 
I  aluniber'd—  but  my  rest  was  not 

As  theirs  who  lay  beneath. 
For  on  my  dreams,  that  shadowy  hour, 

They  rose — thechainless  dead — 
All  arm'd  they  sprang,  in  joy  in  power. 

Up  from  their  grassy  bed. 

I  saw  their  spears,  on  that  red  field. 

Flash  as  in  time  gone  by — 
Chased  to  the  seas  without  his  shield 

I  saw  the  Persian  fly. 
I  woke— the  sudden  trumpet's  blast 

Call'd  to  another  fight- 
Prom  visions  of  our  glorious  past, 

Who  doth  not  wake  in  might  ? 


WE  RETURN  NO  MORE!* 


"  When  I  stood  beneath  the  fresh  green  tree, 

And  saw  around  me  the  wide  HelJ  revive 

With  fruits  and  fertile  promise,  and  the  spring 

Come  forth  her  work  of  gladness  to  contrive, 

With  all  her  reckless  birds  upon  the  wing, 

i  turn'd  from  all  she  brought  to  all  she  could  not  bring." 

C/tildc  Harold. 


'  WE  return — we  return — we  return  no  more." 
—  So  comes  the  song  to  the  mountain  shore, 
From  those  that  are  leaving  their  Highland  home. 
For  a  world  far  over  the  blue  sea's  foam : 
"  We  return  no  more  !"  and  through  cave  and  dell 
Mournfully  wanders  that  wiH  farewell. 

"  We  return — we  return — we  return  no  more." 
—So  breathe  sad  voices  our  spirits  o'er: 
Murmuring  up  from  the  depths  of  the  heart, 
Where  lovfely  things  with  their  light  depart; 
And  the  inborn  sound  hath  a  prophet's  tone, 
And  we  feel  that  a  joy  is  for  ever  gone. 

"  We  return — we  return — we  return  no  more." 
— Is  it  heard  when  the  days  of  flowers  are  o'er? 
When  the  passionate  soul  of  the  night-bird's  lay 
Hath  died  from  the  summer  woods  away  ? 
When  the  glory  from  sunset's  robe  hath  pass'd, 
Or  the  leaves  are  borne  on  the  rushing  blast? 

No!  it  is  not  the  rose  that  returns  no  more; 
A  breath  of  spring  shall  its  bloom  restore; 
And  it  is  not  the  voice  that  o'erflows  the  bowers 
With  a  stream  of  love  through  the  starry  hours  ; 
Nor  is  it  the  crimson  of  sunset  hues, 
Nor  the  frail  flush'd  leaves  which  the  wild  wind 
strews. 


"  We  return— we  return— we  return  no  more." 
— Doth  the  l.ird  sing  thus  from  a  brighter  shore? 
Those  win^s  that  follow  the  southern  breeze. 
Float  they  not  homeward  o'er  vernal  seas? 
Yes  I  from  the  lands  of  the  vine  and  palm. 
They  come,  with  the  sunshir.e,  when  waves  grow 
calm. 

•  But  we— we  return — we  return  no  more  !** 

The  heart's  young  dreams  when  their  spring  is 

o'er; 

Plifi  love  it  hath  ponr'd  so  freely  forth, 
The  boundles?  trust  in  ideal  worth; 
riif  faith  in  affection— deep,  fond,  yet  vain— 
—  These  are  the  lost  that  return  not  again  I 


•*H»  ril-|,a  til-ha  til  mi  tulidle"-we  returo-we  reture-w. 
rturn  no  nmrc.— ihe  burden  of  the  Highland  song  of  emigration. 


THE  CHIEFTAIN'S  SON. 


YES,  it  is  ours! — the  field  is  won, 

A  dark  and  evil  field ! 
Lift  from  the  ground  my  noble  son, 
And  bear  him  homewards  on  his  bloody  shield  I 

Let  me  not  hear  your  trumpets  ring, 

Swell  not  the  battle-horn  ! 
Thoughts  far  too  sad  those  notes  will  bring. 
When  to  the  grave  my  glorious  flower  is  borne) 

Speak  not  of  victory! — in  the  name 

There  is  too  much  of  woe! 
Hush'd  be  the  empty  voice  of  Fame — 
Call  me  back  At'*  whose  graceful  head  is  low 

Speak  not  of  victory !— from  my  halls 

The  sunny  hour  is  gone ! 
The  ancient  banner  on  my  walls 
Must  sink  ere  long— I  had  but  him— but  one! 

Within  the  dwelling  of  my  sires 

The  hearths  will  soon  be  cold. 
With  me  must  die  the  beacon-fires 
That  stream'd  at  midnight  from  the   mountain 
hold. 

And  let  them  fade,  since  this  must  be. 

My  lovely  and  my  brave  ! 
Was  thy  bright  blood  pour'd  forth  for  me, 
And  is  there  but  for  stately  youth  a  grave? 

Speak  to  me  once  again,  my  boy! 
Wilt  thou  not  hear  my  call? 
Thou  wert  so  full  of  life  and  joy, 
I  had  not  dreamt  of  this—ilmi  thou  couldst  fall  I 

Thy  mother  watches  from  the  steep 

For  thy  returning  plume; 
How  shall  1  tell  her  that  thy  sleep 
Is  of  the  silent  house,  Ih'  untimely  tomb? 

Thou  didst  not  s<eem  as  one  to  die, 

With  all  thy  young  renown  ! 
— Ye  saw  his  falchion's  Hash  on  high, 
In   tile  mid-fight,  when  spears  and  crests  went 
down  ! 

Slow  be  your  march!— the  field  is  won 

A  dark  and  evil  field  ! 
Lift  from  the  ground  my  noble  son, 
And  bear  him  homewards  on  his  bloody  shield 


THE  TOMBS  OF  PLAT^EA 

From  a  Fainting  h«  Williams. 


AND  there  they  sleep  !— the  men  who  stood 
In  arms  before  th'  cxiiltma  sun. 
And  bathed  their  spears  in  Persian  blood. 
And  taught  the  earth  how  freedom  might  be  won. 

They  sleep! — th*  Olympic  wreaths  are  dead, 
Th'  Athenian  lyres  are  hush'd  and  gone; 
The  Dorian  voice  of  song  it"  fled — 
— Slumber,  ye  mighty!  slumber  deeply  on  I 


hey  sleep,  and  seems  not  all  around 
s  hallow'd  unto  glory's  tomb? 


/AS  iianuw  u  mm)  glwT  3  luillf).' 

Silence  is  on  the  battle  ground. 
The  heavens  are  loaded  with  a  breathless  gloom. 

And  stars  are  watching  on  their  height, 
But  dimly  seen  through  mist  and  cloud. 
And  still  and  solemn  is  the  light 
Which   folds  the    plain,  as  with  a    glimmering 
shroud. 

And  thou,  pale  night-queen !  here  thy  beam* 
Are  not  as  those  the  shepherd  loves, 
Nor  look  they  down  on  shining  streams, 
By  Naiads  haunted,  in  their  laurel  groves: 


UEMANS'  1'OETICAL  WOKKS. 


245 


Thou  seest  no  pastoral  hamlet  sleep. 
In  shadowy  quiet,  'midst  its  vines; 
No  temiile  gleaming  from  Hie  steep, 
"Midst  tbe  gray  olives,  or  the  mountain  pines: 

But  o'er  a  di  -i  and  boundless  waste, 
Thy  rays,  e'en  like  a  tomb-lamp's,  brood, 
Where  man's  departed  steps  are  traced 
But  by  his  dust,  amidst  the  solitude. 

And  be  it  thus!— What  slave  shall  tread 
O'er  freedom's  ancient  battle-plains? 
Let  deserts  wrap  the  glorious  dead, 
When  their  bright    land  sits  weeping  o'er  oei 
chains: 

Here,  where  the  Persian  clarion  rung. 
And  where  the  Spartan  sword  rlash'd  high, 
And  where  III".  l'a;aii  strains  were  sung, 
From  year  to  year  swell'd  on  by  liberty  1 

Here  should  n»   voice,  no  sound,  b«  hc.au1. 
Unti'  the  bunds  of  Greece  be  riv-m. 
Save  of  the  leader's  charging  word, 
Oi  the  shrill  trumpet,  pealing  up  through  heaven' 

Rest  in  your  silent  homes,  ye  brave ) 
No  vines  festoon  your  lonely  tree  !* 
No  harvest  o'er  your  war-field  wave. 
Till  rushing  winds  proclaim— the  land  is  free! 


LOVE  AND  DEATH. 

Bv  thy  birth,  so  oft  renew'd 
From  the  embers  long  subdued; 
By  the  life-gift  in  thy  chain, 
Broken  link  to  weave  again  ; 

By  thine  infinite  of  woe, 
All  we  know  not,  all  we  know; 
If  there  he  what  dieth  not, 
Thine  affection  is  its  lot  I 

Mighty  ones,  Love  and  Dontii 
Ye  are  strong  in  this  world  of  ours; 
Ye  meet  at  the   banquets,  ye  strive   'midst  Uw 
flowers — 

Which  hath  the  conqueror's  wreath  7 

T/iau  art  the  victor.  Love  1 
Thou  art  the  peerless,  the  crown'd,  u»e  free— 
Tbe  strength  of  the  battle  is  given  to  thee, 

The  spirit  from  above. 

Thou  hast  look'd  on  death  and  smiled  I 
Thou  hast  buoy'd  up  the  fragile  and  reed-like  form 
Through  the  tide  of  the  fight,  through  Uie  rush  of 
the  f  tor  in, 

On  field,  and  flood,  and  wild. 

Thou  hast  stood  on  the  scaffold  atone : 
Thou  bast  watch'd  by  the  wheel  through  the  tor- 
turer's hour, 
And  girt  thy  soul  with  a  martyr's  power 

Till  the  conflict  hath  been  won. 

No — than,  art  the  victor.  Death  ! 
Th«u  cowest — and  where  is  that  which  spoke 
From  the  deptne  of  tut  eye,  when  the  bright  soul 
woke! 

— Gone  with  tbe  flitting  breath! 

Thou  contest — and  what  is  left 
Of  all  thai  loved  us,  to  say  it'  aught 
Vet  loves,  yet  answers  the  burning  thought 

Of  tbe  spirit  lorn  and  reft  7 

•  A  (ingle .tree  ifipean  in  Mr.  WiUianw'i  impnauve  picture 


Silence  is  where  thou  art  t 
Silently  thou  must  kindred  meet ; 
No  glance  to  cheer,  and  no  voice  to  greet , 

No  bounding  of  heart  to  heart ! 

Boast  not  of  thy  victory.  Death  ! 
It  is  but  as  the  cloud's  o'er  the  sunbeam's  power— 
It  is  but  as  the  winter's  o'er  leaf  and  flower. 

That  slumber,  the  snow  beneath. 

It  is  but  as  a  tyrant's  reign 

O'er  the  look  and  the  voice,  which  he  bids  be  still, 
—But  the  sleepless  thought  and  the  fiery  will 

Are  not  for  him  to  chain. 

They  shall  soar  his  might  a  hove  I 
And  so  with  the  reed  whence  affection  spring*, 
Though  buried,  it  is  not  of  mortal  things — 

Than  art  the  victor,  Love  I 


LIGHTS  AND  SHADES. 


THE  gloomiest  day  hath  gleams  of  light, 
The  darkest  wave  hath  bright  foam  near  it , 

And  twinkles  through  the  cloudiest  night 
Some  solitary  star  to  cheer  it. 

The  gloomiest  soul  is  not  all  gloom  •, 
The  saddest  heart  is  not  all  sadness  ; 

And  sweetly  o'er  the  darkest  doom 
There  shines  some  lingering  beam  of  gladnei 

Despair  is  never  quite  despair  : 
Nor  life,  nor  death,  the  future  closes ; 

And  round  the  shadowy  brow  of  care 
Will  hope  and  fancy  twine  their  roses. 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BROTHERS' 


— Hii  early  dayt 
I  him  in  hit  heart* 


Wurdnaort*. 


THE  voices  of  two  forest  boys, 
In  years  when  hearts  entwine, 

Had  A l I'd  with  childhood's  merry  noise 
A  valley  of  the  Rhine. 

To  rock  and  stream  that  sound  was  knowi 

Gladsome  as  hunter's  bugle  tone. 

The  sunny  laughter  of  their  eyes 
There  had  each  vjneyard  seen; 

Up  every  cliff  whence  eagles  rise. 
Their  bounding  step  had  been  ; 

Ay  I  their  bright  youth  a  glory  threw 

O'er  the  wild  place  wherein  they  grew. 

But  this,  as  day-spring's  flush,  was  brief 

As  early  bloom  or  dew  ; 
Alas!  't  is  but  the  wither'd  leaf 

That  wears  th'  enduring  hue ; 
Those  rocks  along  the  Rhine's  fair  shore, 
Might  girdle  in  their  world  no  more. 

For  now  on  manhood's  verge  they  stood, 

And  heard  life's  thrilling  call, 
As  if  a  silver  clarion  woo'd 

To  some  high  festival : 
And  parted  a*  young  brothers  part, 
With  love  in  each  unsullied  heart. 

They  parted— soon  the  paths  divide 

Wherein  our  steps  were  one, 
Like  river-branches,  (ar  and  wide 

Dissevering  as  they  run, 


148 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  making  strangers  in  their  course 

Of  waves  that  had  the  same  bright  source. 

Met  they  no  more  ? — once  more  they  met, 
Those  kindred  hearts  and  true! 

T  was  on  a  field  of  death,  where  yet 
The  battle-thunders  flew. 

Though  the  tierce  day  was  well-nigh  past, 

And  the  red  sunset  smiled  its  last. 

But  as  tile  combat  closed,  (hey  found 
'     For  tender  thoughts  a  space, 
And  e'en  upon  that  bloody  ground 

Room  for  one  bright  embrace. 
And  pour'd  forth  on  each  other's  neck 
Such  tears  as  warriors  need  not  check. 

The  mists  o'er  boyhood's  memory  spread 

All  melted  with  those  tears ; 
The  faces  of  the  holy  dead 

Rose  as  in  vanish'd  years ; 
The  Rhine,  the  Rhine,  the  ever  blest, 
Lifted  its  voice  in  each  full  breast  t 

Oil!  was  it  then  a  time  to  die  I 

It  was  ! — that  not  in  vain 
The  soul  of  childhood's  purity 

And  peace  might  turn  again, 
A  ball  swept  forth — 'twas  guided  well- 
Heart  unto  heart  those  brothers  fell. 

Happy,  yes,  happy  thus  to  go  1 

Bearing  from  earth  away 
Affections,  gifted  ne'er  to  know 

A  shadow — a  decay, 
A  passing  touch  of  change  or  chill, 
^A -breath  of  aught  whose  breath  can  kill 

And  they,  between  whose  sever'd  souls, 

Dnce  in  close  union  tied, 
A  gulf  is  set,  a  current  rolls 

For  ever  to  divide. 
Well  may  they  envy  such  a  lot. 
Whose  hearts  yearn  on — but  mingle  not 


THE  VIEW  FROM  CASTRI 

From  a  Fainting  by  William*. 


THERE  have  been  bright  and  glorious  pageant! 

here. 
Where  now  gray  stones  and  moss-grown  column* 

lie; 
There  have  been  words,  which  earth  grew  pale 

to  hear, 
Breathed    from    the  cavern's    misty  chamber* 

nigh: 

There  have  been  voices,  through  the  sunny  sky. 
And  the  pine-woods,  their  choral  hymn-notes 

sending. 

And  reeds  and  lyres,  their.Dorinn  melody. 
With  incense-clouds  around  the  temple  blend- 
ing. 
And  throngs,  with  laurel-boughs,  before  the  altar 

bending. 

There  have  been  treasures  of  the  seas  and  isles 
Brought  to  the  day-god's  now  forsaken  throne : 
Thunders  huve  peal'd  along  the  rock-defiles, 
When  the  far-echoing  battle-horn  made  known 
That  foes  were  on  their  way  !— the  deep  wind's 

moan 

Hath  chill'd  the  invader's  heart  with  secret  fear 
And  from  the  Sibyl-grottoes,  wild  and  lone, 
Storms  have  gone  forth,  whirh    in  their  fierce 

career, 
Prom  his  bold  hand  have  struck  the  banner  and 

the  spear. 

The  shrine  hath  sunk !— but  thou  unchanged  art 

there ! 
Mount   of  the   voice  and  vision,  robed  with 

dreams ! 
Unchanged,  and  rushing  through  the  radiant 

air, 
With    thy  dark- waving    pines,   and   flashing 

streams, 


And  all  thy  founts  of  song  I  their  bright  court* 

teems 

With  inspiration  yet;  and  each  dim  haze, 
Or  golden  cloud  which  floats  around  thee,  seems 
As  with  Us  mantle,  veiling  from  our  gaze 
The  mysteries  of  the  past,  the  gods  of  elder  days  I 

Away,  vain  phantasies  1— doth  less  of  power 
Dwell  round  thy  summit,  or  thy  cliffs  invest,  '• 
Though  in  deep  stillness  now,  the  ruin's  flower 
Wave  o'er  the  pillars  mouldering  on  thy  breast  ? 
—Lift  through  the  free  blue  heavens  thine  ar- 
rowy crest  I 

Let  the  great  rocks  their  solitude  regain ! 
No  Delphian  lyres  now  break  thy  noontide  rest 
With  their  full  chords :— but  silent  be  the  strain  t 
Thou  hast  a  mightier  voice  to  sp>;ak  th'  Eternal's 
reign  I 


THE  FESTAL  HOUR. 


WHBN  are  the  lessons  given 
That  shake  the  startled  earth?— When  wakes  the 

foe. 
While  the  friend  sleeps!- When  falls  the  traitor'! 

blow? 

When  are  proud  scefjjres  riven, 
High  hopes  o'erthrown  t— It  is,  when  lands  rejoice. 
When  cities  blaze,  and  lift  th'  exulting  voice. 
And  wave  their  banners  to  the  kindling  heaven! 

Fear  ye  the  festal  hour ! 
When  mirth  o'erflows,  then  tremble  I— T  was  a 

night 
Of  gorgeous  revel,  wreaths,  and  dance,  and  light 

When  through  the  rt;gal  bower 
The  trumpet  peal'd  ere  yet  the  song  was  done. 
And  there  were  shrieks  in  golden  Babylon, 
And  trampling  arm  es  ruthless  hi  their  power. 

The  marble  shrines  were  crown'd : 
Young  voices,  through  the  blue  Athenian  sky. 
And  Dorian  reeds,  made  summer-melody. 

And  censers  waved  around ; 

And  lyres  were  strung,  and  bright  libations  pour'd. 
When  through  the  streets,  flash'd  out  the  avenging 

sword, 
Fearless  and  free,  the  sword  with  myrtles  bound  .• 

Through  Rome  a  triumph  pass'd. 
Rich  in  her  sun-god's  mantling  beams  went  by 
That  long  array  of  glorious  pageantry. 

With  shout  and  trumpet-blast. 
An  empire's  gems  their  starry  splendour  shed 
O'er  the  proud  inarch  ;  a  king  in  chains  was  led, 
A  stately  victor,  crown'd  and  robed,  came  last.f 

Aiil  many  a  Dryad's  bower 
Had  lent  the  laurels,  which,  in  waving  play, 
Stirr'd  the  warm  air,  and  glisten'd  round  his  war 

As  a  quick-flashing  shower. 

— O'er  his  own  porch,  meantime  the  cypress  hung 
Through  his  fair  halls  a  cry  of  anguish  rung- 
Woe  for  the  dead !— the  father's  broken  flower  1 

A  sound  of  lyie  and  song, 
In  the  still  night  went  floating  o'er  the  Nile, 
Whose  waves,  by  many  an  old  mysterious  pile, 

Swept  with  that  voice  along; 


And  lamps  were  shining  o'er  the  red  wine's  foam, 
v"liere  a  chief  revell'd  in  a  monarch's  dome, 


Wl 


And  fresh  rose-garland*  deck'd  a  glittering  throng 

'T  was  Antony  that  bade 

The  joyous  chords  ring  out ' — but  strairs  arose 
Of  wilder  omen  at  the  banquet's  close! 

Sounds  by  no  mortal  madej 

•  The  •word  of  Hannodiui. 

t  Paului  JEmilius,  one  of  whose  soul  d!«d  a  few  dijri  befora,  *•• 
another  shortly  after,  hit  triumph  on  the  conquest  of  MAOB&MI, 
when  Feneus,  king  of  that  country,  was  led  in  chain*. 

}  See  the  description  given  by  Plutarch,  in  his  life  of  Antony,  of 
the  supernatural  sounds  hrard  iu  the  strata  of  Alexandria,  IL«  ru(M 
before  Antony's  death 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WOKKS. 


Shook  Alexandria  through  her  streets  that  night. 
And  pass'd— mid  with  another  sunset's  light, 
The  kingly  Roman  on  his  bier  was  laid. 

Bright  'midst  its  vineyards  lay 
The  fair  Campamaii  city,*  with  its  towers 
And  temples  gleaming  through  dark  olive-bowers 

Clear  in  the  golden  day  ; 
Joy  was  around  it  as  the  glowing  sky 
And  crowds  had  til  I'd  its  halls  of  revelry, 
And  all  the  sunny  air  was  music's  way. 

A  cloud  came  o'er  the  face 
Of  Italy's  rich  heaven  ! — its  crystal  blue 
Was  chunked  and  deepen' d  to  a  wrathful  hue 

Of  night,  o'ershadowing  space, 
As  with  the  wings  of  death  !—  in  all  his  power 
Vesuvius  woke,  and  hurl'd  the  burning  shower, 
And  who  could  tell  the  buried  city's  place  ? 

Such  things  hnve  been  of  yore, 
In  the  gay  regions  where  the  citrons  blow, 
And  purple  summers  all  their  sleepy  glow 

On  the  grape-clusters  pour  ; 

And  where  the  palms  to  spicy  winds  are  waving, 
Aliuig  clear  seas  of  melted  sapphire,  laving, 
Ac  with  a  flood  of  light,  their  southern  shore. 

Turn  we  to  other  climes  1 
Far  in  the  Druid-Isle  a  feast  was  spread, 
•Midst  the  rock-altars  of  the  warrior-dead, t 

And  ancient  battle  rhymes 
Were  chanted  to  the  harp  ;  and  yellow  mead 
Went  flowing  round,  and  tales  of  martial  deed. 
And  lofty  songs  of  Britain's  elder  time. 

But  ere  the  giant-fane 

Cant  its  broad  shadows  on  the  robe  of  even, 
liiibli'd  were  the  bards,  and,  in  the  face  of  Heaven, 

O'er  that  old  burial-plain 
Flash'd    the    keen    Saxon    dagger!— Blood    was 

streaming. 

Where  late  the  mead-cup  to  the  sun  was  gleaming, 
And  Britain's  hearths  were  heaped  that  night  in 
vain. 

For  they  return'd  no  more! 

They  that  went  forth  at  morn,  with  reckless  heart 
In  that  fierce  banquet's  mirth  to  bear  their  part ; 

And,  on  the  rushy  floor, 

And  the  bright  spears  and  bucklers  of  the  walls, 
The  high  wood-tires  were  blazing  in  their  halls; 
But   not    for   them— they  slept— their  feast    v>a» 
o'er! 

Fear  ye  the  festal  hour! 
Ay.  tremble  when  the  cup  of  joy  o'erflows ! 
Tame  down  the  swelling  heart !— the  bridal  rose. 

And  the  rich  myrtle's  flower 
Hare  veil'd  the  sword  ! — Red  wines  have  sparkled 

fast 

From  venom'd  goblets,  and  soft  breezes  pass'd, 
With  fatal  peifuoie,  through  the  revel's  bower. 

Twine  the  young  glowing  wreath! 
*nt  pour  not  all  your  spirit  in  the  pong. 
Which  through  the  sky's  deep  azure  float*  along, 

Like  summer's  quickening  breath! 
The  ground  is  hollow  in  the  path  of  mirth, 
Oh !  far  too  daring  seeing  the  joy  of  earth, 
Bo  darkly  press'd  and  girdled  in  by  death  I 


•  Herculaneum,  of  which  it  ii  related,  that  »11  the  inhabitant! 
were  assembled  in  the  theatret,  when  the  shower  of  ashes,  which 
covered  the  city,  descended. 

t  Stonehenge,  nid  by  tame  traditions  to  ha»e  been  erected  to  the 
mamory  of  Aiubrosiiu,  an  early  British  kin*  j  and  by  othen  men 
tUNwd  a  i  a  monumental  reconl  of  the  massacre  of  British  chieb 
ken  illnded  to. 


S  O  IS'  O 


THE  BATTLE  OF  MORGARTEN. 


"  In  the  year  1315,  Switzerland  was  invaded  b/  LHika 
Leopold  of  Austria,  with  a  formidable  army.  I*  u 
well  attested,  that  this  prince  repeatedly  declared  be 
'would  trample  the  audacious  rustics  under  IMS  leet ;' 
and  that  he  had  procured  a  huge  mock  of  cordage,  lot 
the  purpose  of  binding  their  chiefs,  and  putting  them  to 
death. 

"The  15th  October,  1315,  dawned.  The  sun  darted 
itH  first  rays  on  the  shields  and  armour  of  the  advancing 
host:  and  this  being  the  first  army  ever  known  to  have 
attempted  the  frontiers  of  the  cantons,  the  Swiss  viewed 
its  long  line  with  various  emotioni.  Monfort  de  Tell- 
nnng  led  the  cavalry  into  the  narrow  pass,  and  soon 
filled  the  whole  space  between  Ihe  mountain  (Mount 
Sattel)  and  the  lake.  The  fitly  men  on  the  eminence 
(above  Morgarten)  raised  a  sudden  shout,  and  rolled 
down  heaps  of  rucks  and  stones  among  the  crowded 
ranks.  The  confederates  on  the  mountain,  perceiving 
the  impression  made  by  this  attack,  rushed  down  in 
close  array,  and  fell  upon  the  flunk  of  the  disordered 
column.  With  massy  clubs  they  dashed  in  piuce*  the 
armour  of  the  enemy,  and  dealt  their  blows  and  thrust* 
with  long  pikes.  The  narrowness  of  the  defile  admitted 
of  no  evolutions,  and  a  slight  frost  having  injured  the 
road,  the  horses  were  impeded  in  all  their  motion* ; 
many  leaped  into  the  lake ;  all  were  startled  ;  and  al  last 
the  whole  column  gave  way,  and  fell  suddenly  back  on 
the  infantry ;  and  these  last,  ns  the  nature  of  the  country 
did  not  allow  them  to  open  their  files,  were  run  over  by 
the  fugitives,  and  many  of  them  trampled  to  death.  A 
eneralrout  ensued,  nnd  Duke  Leopold  was,  with  much 

ilhY.ulty,  rescued  by  a  peasant,  who  led  him  to  Win- 
enhur,  where  the  historian  of  the  times  saw  him  arrive 
in  the  evening,  pale,  sullen,  and  dismayed.'' — Plantn't 
Hittory  of  the  Helvetic  Confederacy. 


TIIK  wine-month*  shone  in  its  golden  priinn. 

And  the  red  grapes  clustering  hung, 
But  a  deeper  sound  through  the  Switzer's  clime. 
Than  the  vintage  music,  rung. 

A  sound,  through  vaulted  cave, 
A  sound,  through  echoing  glen, 
Like  the  hollow  swell  of  a  rushinc  wave; 
— 'Twas  the  tread  of  steel-girt  men. 

And  a  trumpet,  pealing  wild  and  far, 

'Midst  the  ancient  rocks  was  blown. 
Fill  the  Alps  replied  to  that  voice  of  war. 
With  a  thousand  of  their  own. 
And  through  the  forest  glooms 
Flash'd  helmets  t  >  the  day, 
And  the  winds  were  I  jssing  knightly  plume*. 
Like  the  larch-boughs  in  their  play. 

In  Hasli'sf  wilds  there  '*ns  gloaming  steel. 

As  the  host  of  the  Austrian  pass'd  ;    . 
And  the  Schreckhorn'sJ  rocks,  with  a  savage  petv, 
Made  mirth  of  his  clarion's  blast. 
Up  'midst  the  Righi§  snows 
The  stormy  march  was  heard, 
With  the  charger's  tramp,  whence  fire-sparks  ro»s\ 
And  the  leader's  gathering  word 

But  a  band,  the  noblest  band  of  all, 
Through  the  rude  Morgarten  strait. 

With  blazon'd  streamers  and  lances  tall. 
Moved  onwards,  in  princely  state. 

, _ —        >.-Ja» 

•  Wint-manth,  the  German  name  for  October. 
tHasli,  a  wild  district  in  the  canton  of  Berne, 
t  Schreckhorn,  the  pea*  of  (error,  a  mountain  in  tho  cuta  X 
Berne.  i 

4  Rigni,  a  mcantain  in  the  canton  of  ^cnwyti. 


IIKMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


They  came  with  heavy  chain* 
For  the  race  despised  so  long   - 
— But  amidst  his  Alp-domains, 

The  herdsman's  arm  is  strong  I 

The  sun  was  reddening  the  <-louds  of  morn 

When  they  cnter'd  the  rock-deh'!e, 
And  shrill  as  a  joyous  hunter's  horn 
Their  bugles  r.ing  the  while. 
Hut  on  the  misty  h.  ight. 
Where  the  mountain-people  stood. 
There  WHS  stillness,  as  uf  night. 
When  storms  at  distance  brood. 

Tnere  was  stillness,  as  of  deep  dead  night, 

And  a  pause  — but  not  of  fear, 
While  the  Swil/.ers  gazed  on  the  gathering  might 
Of  the  h  istile  shield  and  spear. 

On  wound  those  columns  bright 
Between  the  lake  and  wood, 
But  they  look'd  not  to  the  height 

Where  the  mountain-people  stood. 

The  pass  was  fill'd  with  their  serried  power, 

All  helm'd  and  mail-array'd, 
And  their  si'-ps  had  sounds  like  a  thunder-shower 
In  the  rustling  forest-shade. 

There  were  prince  and  crested  knight, 
Hemm'd  in  by  dill"  and  flood, 
When  a  shout  arose  from  the  misty  height. 
Where  the  mountain -people  stood. 

And  the  mighty  rocks  came  bounding  down. 

Their  startled  foes  among, 

With  a  joyous  whirl  from  the  summit  thrown— 
— Oh  !  the  herdsman's  arm  is  strong  ! 
They  came,  like  lauwine*  hurl'd 
From  Alp  to  Alp  in  play. 
When   the   echoes  shout   through  the  snowy 

world, 
And  the  pines  are  borne  away. 

The  fir-woods  crash'd  on  the  mountainside, 

And  the  Switzers  rush'd  from  high, 
With  a  sudden  charge  on  the  flower  and  pride 
Of  the  Austrian  chivalry  : 
Like  hunters  of  the  deer, 
They  slorm'd  the  narrow  dell. 
And  the  first  in  the  shock,  with  Uri's  spear, 
Was  the  arm  of  William  Tell.f 

There  was  tumult  in  the  crowded  strait. 

And  a  cry  of  wild  dismay, 
And  many  a  warrior  met  his  fate 
From  a  peasant's  hand  that  day! 
And  the  empire's  banner  tlien, 
From  its  place  of  waving  free. 
Went  down  before  the  shepherd-men 
The  men  of  the  Forest -sea  $ 

With  their  pikes  and  massy  clubs  they  brake 

The  cuirass  and  the  shield. 
And  the  war-horse  dash'd  to  the  reddening  lake, 
From  the  reapers  of  the  field  1 

The  field— but  not  of  sheaves — 
Proud  crests  and  pennons  lay 
Strewn  o'er  it  thick  as  the  birch-wood  leaves 
In  the  autumn-tempest's  way. 

Oh!  the  sun  in  heaven  fierce  havoc  view'd, 

When  the  Austrian  turn'd  to  fly, 
And  the  brave,  in  the  trampling  multitude, 
Had  a  fearful  death  to  die  ! 
And  the  leader  of  the  war 
At  eve  tin  helm'd  was  seen, 
With  a  hurrying  step  on  the  wilds  afar. 
And  a  pale  and  troubled  mien. 

Bat  the  sons  of  the  land  which  the  freemen  tills, 

Went  back  from  the  battle-toil, 
To  iheir  cabin  homes  'midst  the  deep  green  hill*, 

All  burden'd  with  royal  spoil. 

t  William  Telll  name  is  particularly  mentioned  unongit  tt» 
wufederatn  at  Morgarten. 
,  Pi.rttt-lta,  fit  lake  of  the  four  cantoci  is  »!*-  so  ca'led. 


There  were  songs  and  festal  fires 
On  the  soaring  Alps  that  night, 
When  children  sprun,,'  to  greet  their  sire*. 
From  the  wild  Morgarten  fight. 


Translated  In 


CHORUS. 

>  Manzoni'i  "  Conte  di  Ca 


iiagiiola 


HARK!   from  the  right  bursts  forth  a  trumpet'* 

sound  ! 

A  loud  shrill  trumpet  from  the  left  replies! 
On  every  side,  hoarse  echoes  from  the  ground. 
To  the  quick  tramp  of  steeds  and  warriors  rice, 
Hollow  and  deep: — and  banners  all  around. 
Meet  hostile  banners  waving  through  the  skies. 
Here  steel-clad  bands  in  marshall'd  order  shine. 
And  there  a  host  confronts  their  glittering  line. 

Ix> !  half  the  field  already  from  the  sight 
Hath  vanish'd,  hid  by  closing  groups  of  foes! 
Swords  crossing  swords,  flash   lightning   o'er  Die 

fight, 

Ami  the  strife  deepens,  and  the  life-blood  flows! 
—Oh!  who  are  these?  what  stranger  in  his  might 
(/omes  bursting  on  the  lovely  land's  repose? 
What  patriot  hearts  have  nobly  vow'd  to  save 
Their  native  soil,  and  make  its  dust  their  grave  1 

One  race,  alas!  these  foes,  one  kindred  race, 
Were  born  and  rear'd  the  same  bright  scenes  among! 
The  stranger  calls  them  brothers— and  each  face 
That  brotherhood  reveals  ;  one  common  tongue 
Dwells  on  their  lips;— the  earth,  on  which  ye  trace 
Their  heart's  blood,  is  the  soil  from  whence  they 

sprung. 

One  mother  gave  them  birth  — this  chosen  land. 
Girdled  with  Alps  and  seas,  by  Nature's  guardian 

hand. 

Oh,  grief  and  horror! — Who  the  first  could  dare 
Against  a  brother's  breast  the  sword  to  wield? 
What  cause  unhallow'd  and  accursed,  declare  t 
Hath  bathed  with  carnage  this  ignoble  field? 
— Think'st  tlwu  they  know?— they  but  inflict  and 

share 

Misery  and  death,  the  motive  nnreveal'd ! 
Sold  to  a  leader,  sold  himself  to  die, 
With  him  they  strive,  they  fall— and  ask  not  why. 

But  are  there  none  who  love  them  ? — Have  they 

none, 

No  wives,  no  mothers,  who  might  rush  between. 
And  win  with  tears  the  husband  and  the  son, 
Back  to  their  homes  from  this  polluted  scene? 
And  they,  whose  hearts  when  life's  bright  day  is 

done. 

Unfold  to  thoughts  more  solemn  and  serene, 
Thoughts  of  the  tomb ;  why  cannot  they  assuage 
The  storms  of  passion  with  the  voice  of  age  ? 

Ask  not !  the  peasant  at  his  cabin  door 
Sits,  calmly  pointing  to  the  distant  cloud 
Which  skirts  ill'  horizon,  menacing  to  pour 
Destruction  down  o'er  fields  he  hath  not  plougb'd. 
Thus,  where  no  echo  of  the  battle's  roar 
Is  heard  afar,  e'en  thus  the  reckless  crowd 
In  tranquil  safety  number  o'er  the  slain. 
Or  tell  of  cities  burning  on  the  plain. 

There  may'st  thou  mark  the  boy,  with  earnest 

gaze, 

Fix'd  on  his  mother's  lips  intent  to  know, 
By  names  of  insult,  those,  whom  future  days 
Shall  see  him  meet  in  arms,  their  deadliest  foe  t 
There  proudly  many  a  glittering  dame  display* 
Bracelet  and  zone,  with  radiant  gems  that  glow, 
By  husbands,  lovers,  home  in  triumph  borne. 
From  the  sad  brides  of  fallen  warriors  torn. 

Woe  to  the  victors  and  the  vanquish'd  !    Woe  I 
The  earth  is  heap'd,  is  loaded  with  the  slain, 
Loud  and  more  loud  the  cries  of  fury  grow, 
A  sea  of  blood  is  swelling  o'er  the  plain  I 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


249 


But  from  the  embattled  front,  already,  lot 
A  band  recedes— it  (lies— all  |H>I>H  is  vain. 
And  venal  hearts,  despaitini:  •  '.  »lie  strife, 
Wuke  to  tht  love,  t!ie  clinging  love  of  life 

As  the  light  r.ruiii  disperses  in  the  air, 
Borne  from  the  winnowing  liy  the  gales  around. 
TIi:is  fl-   the  vanquish'd.  in  their  wild  d-spnir. 
Chased-  -sevtir'd— scatter M  —  o'er  the  ample  ground. 
But  mightier  bands,  that  lay  in  ambush  theie. 
Burst  on   their  flight  — anil   hark!    the  duencning 

found 

Of  fierce  pursuit!— still  nearer  and  more  near, 
The  rush  of  war-steeds  trampling  in  the  rear  I 


Why  pour  ye  thus  from  your  deserted  homes, 
Oh,  eager  multitudes!  around  him  pressing? 
Each  hurrying  where  his  breathless  courser  foams, 
Bach  tongue,  eacli  eye.  infatuate  hope  confessing ! 
Know  ye  not  whence  th'  ill-omen'd  herald  comes, 
And  dare  ye  dream  he  comes  with  words  of  bless- 
ing? 

— Brothers,  by  brothers  slain,  lie  low  and  cold — 
Be  ye  content  t  the  glorious  tale  is  told. 

I  hear  the  voice  of  joy,  th'  exulting  cry  ! 

They  deck    the    shrine,    they  swell    the   choral 

strains; 

E'en  now  the  homicides  assail  the  sky 
With  pteans.  which  indignant  Heaven  disdains) 
But,  from  I  he  soaring  Alps,  the  stranger's  eye 
lyooku  watchful  down  on  our  ensanguined  plains. 
And  v  ill!  the  cruel  rapture  nf  a  foe. 
Numb  :rs  the  mighty,  strelrhM  in  death  below. 

Haste  I  form  your  I. lies  again,  ye  brave  and  true ! 
Haste,  haste!  your  triumphs  and  your  joys  sus- 
pending 1 

Th'  invader  comes ;  your  banners  raise  anew, 
Rush  to  the  strife,  your  country's  cause  defending! 
Victors  I  why  pause  ye  ? — Are  ye  weak  and  few  1 
Ay,  such  he  deem'd  you  !  and  for  this  descending, 
He  waits  you  on  the  field  ye  know  too  well, 
The  same  red  war-tield  where  your  brethren  fell. 

Oh!  thou  devoted  land!  that  canst  not  rear 
In  peace  thine  offspring;  thou,  the  lost  and  won, 
The  fair  and  fatal  soil,  that  dost  appear 
Too  narrow  still  for  each  contending  son ; 
Receive  the  stranger,  in  his  fierce  career, 
Parting  thy  spoils  !— thy  chastening  is  begun  t 
And,  wresting  from  thy  chiefs  the  guardian  sword, 
Foes  whom  thou  ne'er  hadst  wrong'd,  sit  proudly 
at  thy  board. 

Are  these  infatuate  too?  Oh!  who  hath  known 
A  people  e'er  by  guilt's  vain  triumph  blest? 
The  wrong'd,  the  vanquish'd,  suffer  not  alone, 
Brief  is  the  joy  that  swells  th'  oppressor's  breast. 
What  though  not  yet  his  day  of  pride  be  flown, 
Though  yet  Heaven's  vengeance  spare  his  tower- 
ing crest, 

Well  hath  it  mark'd  him— and  ordain'd  the  hour 
When  his  last  sigh  shall  own  its  mightier  power. 

Are  we  not  creatures  of  one  hand  divine? 
Form'd  in  one  mould,  to  one  redemption  born? 
Kindred  alike,  where'er  our  skies  may  shine, 
Where'er  our  sight  first  drank  the  vital  morn  ? 
Brothers!  one  bond  around  our  souls  shouhl  twine, 
And  woe  to  him  by  whom  that  bond  is  torn  t 
Who  mounts  by  trampling  broken  hearts  to  earth, 
Who  bears  down  spirits  of  immortal  birth! 


THE  MEETING  OF  THE  BARDa 

WRITTEN   FOR  AN    EISTEDDVOD,   OR    MEETING 
OF  WELSH  BARM, 

Held  in  London,  May  22d,  1823. 


The  Gorseddau,  or  meetings  of  the  British  bards, 
were  niic.iently  ordained  to  be  held  in  the  open  air,  on 
some  conspicuous  siluation,  whilst  the  sun  was  above 
the  Imri/.oii .  or,  according  to  the  expression  employed 
on  these  occasions,  "  in  the  face  of  the  gun.  and  in  the 
cyo  of  light."  The  places  set  apart  for  this  purpose 
were  marked  out  by  a  circle  of  clones,  called  the  circle 
of  I'eileration.  The  presiding  bard  stood  on  a  larga 
atone  (Maen  GoiBedd  or  the  stone  of  assembly,)  in  th« 
centre.  The  sheathing  of  a  sword  upon  this  stone  wa» 
the  ceremony  which  announced  the  opening  of  a  (lor- 
tedd,  or  meeting.  The  bards  always  stood  in  their  imi- 
coloured  robes,  with  their  heads  nnd  feet  uncovered 
within  the  circle  of  federation. — See  Owen's  Traiular 
tion  of  the  Heroic  Elegies  of  Llywarc  Hen. 


WHERE    met    our  bards   of  old?— the    glorious 

throng. 

They  of  the  mountain  and  the  battle  song? 
They  met— oh  !  not  in  kingly  hall  or  bower. 
But  where  wild  nature  girt  herself  with  power: 
They  met — where  streams  flash'd  bright  from  rocky 

caves. 
They  met — where  woods  made  moan  o'er  warriors' 

graves, 

And  where  the  torrent's  rainbow  spray  was  cast, 
And  where  dark  lakes  were  heaving  to  the  blast, 
And  'midst  th'  eternal  cliffs,  whose  strength  de- 
lied 
The  irested  Roman  in  his  hour  of  pride ; 

And  where  the  Carnedd,*  on  its  lonely  hill. 
Bore  silent  record  of  the  mighty  still; 
And  where  the  Druid's  ancient  Cromlechf  frown'd. 
And  the  oaks  breathed  mysterious  murmurs  round 
There  throng'd  th' inspired  of  yore  I — on  plainer 

height, 

In  the  sun's  face,  beneath  the  eye  of  light, 
And,  baring  unto  heaven  each  noble  head, 
Stood  in  the  circle,  where  none  else  might  tread. 

Well  might  their  lays  be  lofty! — soaring  thought 
From  Nature's  presence  tenfold  grandeur  caught: 
Well  might  bold  Freedom's  soul  pervade  the 

strains, 

Which  startled  eagles  from  their  lone  domains, 
And,  like  a  breeze,  in  chainless  triumph,  went 
Up  through  the  blue  resounding  firmament  1 

Whence  came  the  echoes  to  those  numbers  high  ? 
— 'T  was  from  the  battle-fields  of  days  gone  by ! 
And  from  the  tombs  of  heroes,  laid  to  rest 
With   their  good    swords,  upon  the  mountain's 

breast ; 
And  from   the  watch-towers  on  the  heights  of 

snow, 

Sever'd  by  cloud  and  storm,  from  all  below; 
And  the  turf-mounds, (  once  girt  by  ruddy  spears. 
And  the  rock-altars  of  departed  years. 

Thence,  deeply  mingling  with  the  torrent's  roar. 

The  winds  a  thousand  wild  responses  bore; 

And  the  green  land,  whose  every  vale  and  glen 

Doth  shrine  the  memory  of  heroic  .men, 

On  all  her  hills  awakening  to  rejoice, 

Sent  forth  proud  answers  to  her  children's  voice. 

For  us,  not  ours  the  festival  to  hold, 

'Midst  the  stone-circles,  hallow'd  thus  of  old ; 

•  Carnedd,  a  Hone-barrow,  or  Cairo. 

t  Cromlech,  a  Druidtcal  monument,  or  altar.    Th«  word  m«*i»  % 


250 


UEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Not  where  great  Nature's  majesty  and  might 
First  broke,  all-gloriiws, on  our  infunt  sight; 
Not  near  the  lunilis,  where  sleep  our  free  and 

brave. 

Not  by  tin-  mountain-Hyi!,*  the  ocean  wave. 
In  these  late  ilayii  w«  meet!— ilark  Mona's  shore, 
Eryri'sf  cliffs  resouii'1  with  harps  no  more! 
But,  as  the  tftreain  (though  time  or  ort  may  turn 
The  current,  bursting  from  its  cavern'd  urn, 
To  bathe  soft  vales  of  pastures  and  of  flowers, 
Prom  Alpine  glens,  or  ancient  forest-bowers,) 
Alike,  in  rushing  strength  or  sunny  sleep, 
Holds  on  its  course,  to  mingle  with  the  deep ; 
Thus,  though  our  paths  be  changed,  still  warm 

and  free. 

Land  of  the  bard !  our  spirit  flies  to  thee  1 
To  thee  our  thoughts,  our  hopes,  our  hearts  be- 

long, 

Our  dreams  are  haunted  by  thy  voice  of  song  I 
Nor  yield  our  souls  one  patriot-feeling  less, 
To  the  green  memory  of  thy  loveliness. 
Than  theirs,  whose  harp-notes  peal'd  from  every 

height, 
h  the  lun'tface,  beneath  the  eye  of  light  I 


O,  YE   HOURS! 

O  TE  hours,  ye  sunny  hours  1 

Floating  lightly  by. 
Are  ye  come  with  birds  and  flower*, 

Odours  and  blue  sky  7 

Yes,  we  come,  again  we  come, 
Through  the  wood-paths  free 

Bringing  many  a  wanderer  home. 
With  the  bird  and  bee. 

O  ye  hours,  ye  sunny  hours! 

Are  ye  wafting  song  ? 
Doth  mild  music  stream  in  showers 

All  the  groves  among  7 

Yes,  the  nightingale  is  there. 
While  the  starlight  reigns. 

Making  young  leaves  and  sweet  air 
Tremble  with  her  strains. 

O  ye  hours,  ye  sunny  hours  t 

In  your  silent  flow, 
Ye  are  mighty,  mighty  powers  I 

Bring  ye  bliss  or  woe  I 

Ask  not  this — oh  1  seek  not  this  . 

Yield  your  hearts  awhile 
To  the  soft  wind's  balmy  kiss. 

And  the  heaven's  bright  smile  I 

Fhrow  not  shades  of  anxious  thought 

O'er  the  glowing  flowers ! 
We  are  come  with  sunshine  fraught, 

Question  not  the  hours  I 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  GIFTED. 


That  toice  i 
Whatever  tones  and  melancholy  pleasures, 
The  things  of  nature  utler :  birds  or  trees. 
Or  where  the  tall  grass  'mid  the  heath-plant  waves, 
Murmur  and  music  thin  of  sudden  braeac." 

ColtHafp. 

I  HEARD  a  song  upon  the  wandering  wind, 
A  song  of  many  tones—  though  one  full  soul 
Breathed  through  them  all  imploringly;  and  made 
All  nature  as  they  paiis'd,  all  quivering  leaves 
And  low  responsive  rends  and  waters  thrill, 
As  with  tin-  consciousness  of  human  prayer. 


•  Llyn,  a  lake  or  pool 


•*ryri,Snowdo« 


-At  times  the  par>sion-kindied  melody 
Might  seem  to  gush  from  Sappho's  fervent  heart. 
Over  the  wild  sea-wave ,— at  times  the  strain 
Flow'd  with  more  plaintive  sweetness,  as  if  born 
Of  Petrarch's  voice,  lieside  the  lone  Vaucluse; 
And  sometimes,  with  its  melancholy  swell, 
A  graver  sound  was  mingled,  a  deep  note 
Of  Tasso's  holy  lyre ;  yet  still  the  tones 
Were  of  a  suppliant. ;— "Leave  me  not!"  was  still 
The  bur  tan  of  their  music;  anil  I  knew 
The  lay  which  genius,  in  its  loneliness. 
Its  own  still  world  niniilst  th'  o'erpeopled  world. 
Hath  ever  breathed  to  Uive. 

They  crown  me  with  the  glistening  crown, 

Borne  from  a  deathless  tree; 
I  hear  the  pealing  music  of  renown— 

0  Love!  forsake  me  not! 
Mine  were  a  lone  dark  lot, 

Bereft  of  thee  I 

They  tell  me  that  my  soul  can  throw 

A  glory  o'er  the  earth  ! 

From  thee,  from  thte,  is  caught  that  golden  glow! 
Shed  by  thy  gentle  eyes 
It  gives  to  flower  and  skies, 
A  bright,  new  liirth  ! 
Thence  gleams  the  path  of  morning, 
Over  the  kindling  hills,  a  sunny  zone) 
Thence  to  its  heart  of  hearts,  the  rose  is 

burning 

With  lustre  not  its  own  I 
Thence  every  wood-recess 
Is  lili'd  with  loveliness, 
Each  bower,  to  ringdoves,  and  dim  vioteu 
known. 

1  see  all  beauty  by  thy  ray 
That  streameth  from  thy  smile; 

Oh !  bear  it,  bear  it  not  away. 

Can  that  sweet  light  beguile? 
Too  pure,  too  spirit-like,  it  seems. 
To  linger  long  by  earthly  streams  ; 

I  clasp  it  with  th'  alloy 

Of  fear  'midst  quivering  joy; 
Yet  must  I  perish  if  the  gift  depart — 
Leave  me  not,  Love  1  to  mine  own  beating 
heart ! 

Tiie  music  from  my  lyre 
With  thy  swift  step  would  flee; 
The  world's  cold  breath  would  quench  the  starry 

fire 

In  my  deep  soul— a  temple  fill'd  with  thee  I 
Seal'd  would  the  fountains  lie. 
The  waves  of  harmony. 
Which  thou  alone  canst  free  ? 

Like  a  shrine  'midst  rocks  forsaken. 

Whence  the  oracle  hath  fled ; 
Like  a  harp  which  none  might  waken 

But  a  mighty  master  dead ; 
Like  the  vase  of  perfume  scatter'd, 

Such  would  my  spirit  be; 
Bo  mute,  so  void,  so  shatter'd, 

Bereft  of  thee  I 


Leave  me  not,  Love !  or  if  this  earth 

Yield  not  for  thee  a  home, 
If  the  bright  summer-land  of  thy  pure  birth 
Send   thee   a  silvery  voice    that   whispers 

"  ConteT 

Then,  with  the  glory  from  the  rose. 
With  the  sparkle  from  the  stream. 
With  the  light  thy  rainbow-presence  throws 
Over  the  poet's  dream  ; 
With  all  th'  Elysian  hues 
Thy  pathway  that  suffuse, 
With  joy,  with  music,  from  the  fading  grove. 
Take  me,  too,  heavenward,  on  thy  wing,  ~ 
Lore  I 


HKMANS'  POETICAL  WUllKS. 


25J 


MARGUERITE  OF  FRANCE.* 


Thou  blow-heated  dore. 

Cetmdf. 

Tw  Moslem  spears  were  gleaming 

Round  Oamietta's  towers, 
Though  a  Christian  banner  from  her  wall, 

Waved  free  its  Lily-flowers. 
Ay,  proudly  did  the  banner  wave, 

As  Queen  of  Earth  and  Air; 
But  faint  hearts  throbb'd  beneath  iu  fold*. 

In  anguish  and  despair. 

Deep,  deep  in  Paynim  dungeon. 

Their  kingly  chieftain  lay. 
Anil  low  on  many  an  Eastern  field 

Their  knighthood's  best  array. 
•T  was  mournful,  when  at  feasts  they  met, 

The  wine-cup  round  to  send, 
For  each  that  touch'd  it  silently, 

Then  miss'd  a  gallant  friend  I 

And  mournful  was  their  vigil 

•  On  the  beleaguer'd  wall, 

And  dark  their  slumber,  dark  with  dreamt 

•  Of  slow  defeat  and  fall. 
Yet  a  few  hearts  of  Chivalry 

Rose  high  to  breast  the  storm. 
And  one— of  all  the  loftiest  there— 
Thrill'd  in  a  woman's  form. 

A  woman,  meekly  bending 

Oer  the  slumber  of  her  child, 
With  her  soft  sad  eyes  of  weeping  love. 

As  the  Virgin  Mother's  mild. 
Ob !  roughly  cradled  was  thy  Babe, 

'Midst  the  clash  of  spear  and  lance. 
Ana  a   strange,  wild   bower  was  thine,  young 
Queen : 

Fair  Marguerite  of  France  I 

A  dark  and  vaulted  chamber, 

Like  a  scene  for  wizard-spell, 
Deep  in  the  Saracenic  gloom 

Of  the  warrior  citadel; 
And  there  'midst  arms  the  couch  was  spread, 

And  with  banners  curtain'd  o'er, 
For  the  Daughter  of  the  Minstrel-land, 

The  gay  Provencal  shore  I 

For  the  bright  Queen  of  St.  Louis, 

The  star  of  court  and  hall  !— 
But  the  deep  strength  of  the  gentle  heart. 

Wakes  to  the  tempest's  call ! 
Her  Lord  was  in  the  Paynim's  hold. 

His  soul  with  grief  oppress'd, 
Yet  calmly  lay  the  Desolate, 

With  her  young  babe  on  her  breast  I 

There  were  voices  in  the  city, 

Voices  of  wrath  and  fear-  - 
"  The  walls  grow  weak,  the  strife  is  vain, 

We  will  not  perish  here  1 
Yield  I  yield  I  and  let  the  crescent  gleam 

O'er  tower  and  bastion  high! 
Our  distant  homes  are  beautiful— 

We  itay  not  here  to  die !" 

They  bore  those  fearful  tiding* 
To  the  sad  Queen  where  she  lay — 

They  told  a  tale  of  wavering  heart*, 
Of  treason  and  dismay : 


•  Queen  of  St.  I-miii.  Whilst  besieged  bjr  the  Turk,  in  Damiette, 
fanne  the  captivity  of  the  king,  her  husband,  the  there  cave  birth 
to  a  ton,  whom  ihe  namtd  Tristan,  in  commemoration  of  her  mis- 
r.irtnnr,.  Information  beinr  conveyed  to  her  that  the  knirhts  in 
trwted  with  Ihe  defence  of  the  city  had  resolved  on  capitulit  ion,  sh* 
had  Iheaniumnioned  to  her  apartment,  and,  by  her  heroic  words,  so 
wrought  upon  their  spirits,  that  they  vowtxl  to  defend  her  and  Uu 
Ocxs  lo  the  but  extremity 


The  blood  rush'd  through  her  pearly  cheek. 

The  sparkle  to  hei  eye— 
"Now  call  me  hither  those  recreant  knight*, 

From  the  bands  of  Italy  !"* 

Then  through  the  vaulted  chambers 

Stern  iron  footsteps  rang ; 
And  heavily  the  sounding  floor 

Gave  back  the  sabre's  clang. 
They  stood  around  her — sii-i-l-clad  men, 

Moulded  for  storm  and  fk'lit, 
But  they  quail'd  before  thn  loftier  soul 

Iu  that  pale  aspect  bright. 

Yeg_as  before  the  Falcon  shrink* 

The  Bird  of  meaner  wing. 
So  shrank  they  from  th'  imperial  glance 

Of  Her— that  fragile  thing! 
Arid  her  flute-like  voice  rose  clear  and  high. 

Through  the  din  of  arms  around, 
Sweet,  and  yet  stirring  to  the  soul, 

As  a.  silver  clarion's  sound. 

•'  The  honour  of  the  Lily 

Is  in  your  hands  to  keep, 
And  the  Banner  of  the  Cross,  for  Him 

Who  died  on  Calvary's  steep: 
And  the  city  which  for  Christian  prayer 

Hath  heard  the  holy  bell — 
And  is  it  these  your  hearts  would  yield 

To  the  godless  Infidel  7 

••Then  bring  me  here  a  breastplate, 

And  a  helm,  before  ye  fly, 
And  I  will  gird  my  woman's  form, 

And  on  the  ramparts  die ! 
And  the  Boy  whom  I  have  borne  for  woe. 

But  never  for  disgrace. 
Shall  go  within  mine  arm*  to  death 

Meet  for  his  royal  race. 

"  Look  on  him  as  he  slumbers 

In  the  shadow  of  the  Lance! 
Then  go,  and  with  the  Cross  forsake 

The  princely  Babe  of  France ! 
But  tell  your  homes  ye  left  one  heart 

To  perish  undefined ; 
A  Woman  and  a  Queen,  to  guard 

Her  Honour  and  her  Child  1" 

Before  her  words  they  thrill'd,  like  leave*. 

When  winds  are  in  the  wood; 
And  a  deepening  murmur  told  of  men 

Roused  to  a  loftier  mood. 
And  he-  Babe  awoke  to  flashing  sword*, 

Unsheathed  in  many  a  hand, 
As  they  gather'd  round  the  helpless  One, 

Again  a  noble  band  I 

"  We  are  thy  warriors,  Lady  1 

True  to  the  Cross  and  thee  I 
The  spirit  of  thy  kindling  words 

On  every  sword  shall  lie  ! 
Rest,  with  thy  fair  child  on  thy  breast, 

Rest— we  will  guard  thee  well : 
St.  Dennis  for  the  Lily-flower, 

And  the  Christian  citadel  1" 


THE  FALLEN  LIME-TREE. 


On,  joy  of  the  peasant !    O  stately  lime  f 
Thou  art  fallen  in  thy  golden  honey-time 
Thou  whose  wavy  shadows. 

Long  and  long  ago, 
Screen'd  our  gray  forefather* 
From  the  noontide's  glow; 
Thou,  beneath  whose  branches, 

Touch'd  with  moonlight  gleam*. 
Lay  our  early  poets 

Wrapt  in  fairy  dreams. 
O  tree  of  our  fathers  t  O  hallow'd  tree  I 
A  glorv  is  gone  from  our  borne  with  thee 

»  The  proposal  tn  capitulate  is  attributed  bt  Uu  French  histooM 
totb.  KnighUof  Pi*. 


252 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Where  shall  now  the  weary 

Rest  through  summer  eves? 
Or  the  bee  find  honey. 

As  on  thy  sweeet  leaves? 
Where  shall  now  the  ring-dove 

Build  again  her  nest  ? 
She  so  Ion;;  the  inmate 

Of  thy  fragrant  hreast? 
But  the  sons  of  the  peasant  have  loet  in  thee 
Far  more  than  the  ring-dove,  far  more  than  the 

bee ! 

These  may  yet  find  coverts, 

Leafy  and  profound. 
Full  of  dewy  dimness, 

Odour  and  soft  sound: 
But  the  gentle  memories 

Clinging  all  lo  thee. 
When  shall  they  he  g«"her'd 

Round  anothe/  tree  7 
O  pride  of  our  fathers ;  O,  hallow'd  tree ! 
The  crown  of  the  hamlet  is  fallen  in  tbee  I 


THE  FREED  BIRD. 


Swifter  far  than  summer's  flight, 
Swifter  far  than  youth's  delight, 
Swifter  far  than  happy  night, 

Thou  art  come  and  gone  1 

A»  the  earth  when  leaves  are  dead, 
Ai  the  night  when  sleep  is  sped, 
As  the  heart  when  joy  is  fled, 

1  am  left  here,  alone ! 

Shtlley. 

RETI-RN,  return,  my  Bird ! 

I  have  dress'd  thy  cage  with  flowers, 
Tis  lovely  as  a  violet  bank 

In  the  heart  of  forest  bowers. 

"  I  am  free,  I  am  free,  I  return  no  more ! 
The  weary  time  of  the  cage  is  o'er! 
Through  the  rolling  clouds  I  can  soar  on  high, 
The  sky  is  around  me,  the  blue  bright  sky] 

"  The  hills  lie  beneath  me,  spread  far  and  clear, 
With  their  glowing  heath-flowers  and  bounding 

deer — 
I  see  the  waves  flash  on  the  sunny  shore— 

I  am  free,  I  am  free— I  return  no  more  I" 

Alas,  alas,  my  Bird! 

Why  seek'st  thou  to  be  free  ? 
Wert  thou  not  blest  in  thy  little  bower. 

When  thy  song  breathed  naught  but  glee? 

"  Did  my  song  of  summer  breathe   naught  but 

glee  ? 

Did  the  voice  of  the  captive  seem  sweet  to  thee  ? 
— Oh  1  hadst  thou  known  its  deep  meaning  well! 

II  had  tales  of  a  burning  heart  to  tell ! 

"  Prom  a  dream  of  the  forest  that  music  sprang, 
Through  its  notes  the  peal  of  a  torrent  rang; 
And  its  dying  fall,  when  it  soothed  thee  best, 
Bigh'd,  for  wild  flowers  and  a  leafy  nest." 

Was  it  with  thee  thus,  my  Bird  ? 

Vet  thine  eye  flash'd  clear  and  bright' 
J  have  seen  the  glance  of  sudden  joy 

In  iu  quick  and  dewy  light 

"  It  flash'd  with  the  fire  of  a  tameless  rare, 
With  the  soul  of  the  wild  wood,  my  native  place ! 
With  the  spirit  that  panted  through  heaven  to 

•oar- 
Woo  me  not  back — I  return  no  more  1 

"My  home  is  high,  amidst  rocking  trees, 
My  kindred  things  are  the  star  and  breeze, 
And  the  fount  uncheck'd  in  its  lonely  play, 
And  the  odours  that  wander  afar,  away  1" 


Farewell,  farewell,  then,  Bird! 

I  have  caird  on  spirits  gone, 
And  it  may  be  they  joy'd  like  thee  to  part, 

Like  thee,  that  wert  all  my  own  I 

'  If  they  were  captives,  and  pined  like  me. 
Though  Love  might  guard  them,  they  joy'd  to  be 

free! 

They  sprang  from  the  earth  with  a  burst  of  power. 
To  the  strength  of  their  wings,  to  their  triumph'* 

hour! 

"Call  them  not  back  when  the  chain  io  riven, 
When  the  way  of  the  pinion  is  all  through  heaven  I 
Farewell !— With  my  song  through  tbo  clouds   I 

soar, 
I  pierce  the  blue  skies— I  am  Earth's  no  more  I" 


THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  DESERT. 


"Who  does  not  recollect  the  exultation  of  Valliant 
over  a  flower  in  the  torrid  wastes  of  Africa? — The  af- 
fecting mention  of  the  influence  of  a  flower  upon  the 
mind,  by  Mungo  Park,  in  a  time  of  sufluting  and  de- 
spondency, in  the  henrt  of  the  game  savaee  country,  • 
familiar  to  every  one."— Howitt's  Book  of  the  Secuont. 

WHY  art  thou  thus  in  thy  beauty  cast, 

O  lonely,  loneliest  flower ! 
Where  the  sound  of  song  hath  never  pass'd 

From  human  hearth  or  bower  ? 

I  pity  thee,  for  thy  heart  of  love. 

For  thy  glowing  heart,  that  fain 
Would  breathe  out  joy  with  each  wind  to  rove— 

In  vain,  lost  thing!  in  vain! 

I  pity  thee  for  thy  wasted  bloom. 

For  thy  glory's  fleeting  hour. 
For  the  desert  place,  thy  living  tomb — 

O  lonely,  loneliest  flower  ! 

I  said — but  a  low  voice  made  reply, 

"  Lament  not  for  the  flower ! 
Though  its  blossoms  all  unmark'd  must  die. 

They  have  had  a  glorious  dower. 

"  Though  it  bloom  afar  from  the  minstrel's  way, 

And  the  paths  where  lovers  tread. 
Vet  strength  and  hope,  like  an  inborn  day. 

By  its  odours  hath  been  shed. 

"  Yes !  dews  more  sweet  than  ever  fell 

O'er  island  of  the  blest, 
Were  shaken  forth,  from  its  perfumed  bell, 

On  a  suffering  human  breast. 

"  A  wanderer  came,  as  a  stricken  deer, 

O'er  the  waste  of  burning  sand, 
He  bore  the  wound  of  an  Arab  spear, 

He  fled  from  a  ruthless  band. 

"  And  dreams  of  home,  in  a  troubled  tide, 

Swept  o'er  his  darkening  eye, 
As  he  lay  down  by  the  fountain  side, 

In  his  mute  despair  to  die. 

"  But  his  glance  was  caught  by  the  desert's  flowe* 

The  precious  boon  of  heaven  ! 
And  sudden  hope,  like  a  vernal  shower. 

To  his  fainting  heart  was  given. 

"  For  the  bright  flower  spoke  of  One  above ; 

Of  the  Presence,  felt  to  brood. 
With  a  Spirit  of  pervading  love, 

O'er  the  wildest  solitude. 

"  Oh !  the  seed  was  thrown  these  wastes  among. 

In  a  blest  and  gracious  hour ! 
For  the  lorn  one  rose,  in  heart  ma<  e  strong, 

By  the  lonely  loneliest  flower  1" 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


253 


THE  HUGUENOT'S  FAREWELL. 

I  STAND  upon  the  threshold  stone 

Of  mint?  ancestral  hull; 
I  hear  my  native  river  moan  ; 

I  gee  the  night  o'er  my  old  forests  fall. 

I  look  round  on  the  darkening  vale, 

That  saw  my  childhood's  plays: 
The  low  wind  in  its  rising  wail 

Hath  a  strange  tone,  a  sound  of  othur  day.*. 

But  I  must  rule  my  swelling  breath: 

A  sign  is  in  tin;  sky  ; 
Bright  o'er  yon  pray  rock's  eagle  nest 

Shines  forth  a  warning  star— it  bid*  tat  fly 

My  father's  sword  is  in  my  hand, 

His  deep  voice  haunts  mine  ear  ; 
lie  tells  me  of  UK;  nolilc  Land, 

Whose  lives  huvu  left  a  brooding  glory  here. 

He  hid?  their  offspring  guard  from  stain 

Their  pure  and  lofty  faith; 
And  yield  up  all  things  to  maintain 

The  cause,  for  which   they  girt  themselves  to 
death. 

And  I  obey.— I  leave  their  towers 

Unto  the  stranger's  tread  ; 
Unto  the  creeping  grass  and  flowers; 

Unto  the  fading  pictures  of  the  dead. 

I  leave  their  shields  to  slow  decay, 

Their  banners  to  the  dust; 
I  go,  and  only  bear  away 

Their  old  majestic  name,— a  solemn  trust  I 

I  go  up  to  the  ancient  hills, 

Where  chains  may  never  be. 
Where  leap  in  joy  tlio  torrent  rills, 

Where  man  may  worship  (Jod,  alone  and  free. 

There  shall  an  altar  and  a  camp 

Impregnably  arise ; 
there  shall  be  lit  a  quenchless  lamp. 

To  shine  unwavering  through  the  upon  skies. 

And  song  shall  'midst  the  rocks  be  heard. 

And  fearless  prayer  ascend  ; 
While  thrilling  to  God's  holy  word. 

The  mountain  pines  in  adoration  bend. 

%nd  there  the  burning  heart  no  more 

Its  deep  thought  shall  suppress, 
But  the  long-buried  truth  shall  pour 

Free  currents  tliencc,  amidst  the  wilderness. 

Then  fare  time  well,  my  mother's  bower, 

Farewell,  my  father's  hearth ; 
Perish,  my  home  I  where  lawless  power 

Hath  rent  the  tie  of  love  to  native  earth. 

Perish  !  let  deathlike  silence  fall 

Upon  the  lone  abode : 
Spread  fast,  dark  ivy.  spread  thy  pall : — 

1  go  up  to  the  mountains  with  my  God. 


THE  WANDERER. 


From  the  German  of  Schmidt  Von  Lubeek.* 


I  COMB  down  from  the  hills  alone. 
Mist  wraps  the  vale,  the  billows  moan ; 
I  wander  on  in  thoughtful  care. 
Forever  asking,  sighing—  Where? 

The  sunshine  round  seems  dim  and  cold, 
And  flowers  are  pale,  and  life  is  old. 
And  words  fall  soulless  on  my  ear, 
Oh  !  I  am  still  a  stranger  hero. 


i  the  Dublin  Univenity  Maguiw  fcr  Feb. 


Where  art  thou,  land,  sweet  land,  mine  own  1 
Still  sought  for,  longed  for,  never  known  I 
The  land,  the  land  of  hope,  of  light, 
Where  glow  my  roses,  freshly  bright  ;— 

And  where  my  friends  the  green  paths  tread 
And  where  in  beauty  rise  my  dead ; 
The  land  that  speaks  my  native  speech. 
The  blessed  land  I  may  not  reach ! 

I  wander  on  in  thoughtful  care, 
For  ever  asking,  sighing — filters'! 
And  spirit-sounds  conic  answering  this, 
•'  There,  where  thou  art  not  .here  is  bliss." 


THE  SILENT  MULTITUDE. 


For  fre  ire  many  in  our  Solitudes. 

Lamotl  of  n 

A  MIOIITY  and  a  mingled  throng 
Were  gnther'd  in  one  s|H>t ; 

The  Dwellers  of  a  thousand  Homes- 
Yet  'midst  them  Voice  was  not. 

The  Soldier  and  his  Chief  were  there— 

The  Mother  and  her  Child  : 
The  friends,  the  Sisters  of  one  hearth — 

None  spoke — none  moved,  none  smiled. 

There  lovers  met,  between  whose  lives 

Years  had  swept  darkly  by ; 
After  that  heart-sick  hope  deferrM — 

They  met— but  silently. 

You  might  have  heard  the  rustling  leaf, 

The  breeze's  faintest  sound. 
The  shiver  of  an  insect's  wing 

On  that  thick-peopled  ground. 

Your  voice  to  whispers  would  have  died. 

For  the  deep  quiet's  sake; 
Your  tread  the  softest  moss  have  sought. 

Such  stillness  not  to  break. 

What  held  the  countless  Multitude 
Bound  in  that  spell  of  peace  1 

How  could  the  ever-sounding  life 
Amid  so  many  cease  1 

Was  it  some  pageant  of  the  air — 

Some  glory  high  above, 
That  link'd  and  Imsh'd  those  human  souls 

In  reverential  love  7 

Or  did  some  burdening  passion's  weight 
Hang  on  their  indrawn  breath? 

Awe— the  pale  awe  that  freex.es  words} 
Fear — the  strong  fear  of  Death  1 

A  mightier  thing— Death,  Death  himself 
Lay  on  each  lonely  heart  1 

Kindred  were  there— yet  hermits  nil- 
Thousands — but  each  apart 


WASHINGTON'S  STATUE. 


Sent  from  England  to  America. 


Y«st  rear  thy  guardian  Hero's  form 
On  thy  proud  soil,  thou  Western  World 
A  watcher  through  each  sign  of  storm, 
O'er  Freedom's  flag  unfurl'd. 

There,  as  before  a  shrine  to  bow. 
Rid  thy  true  song  their  children  lead; 
The  language  of  that  noble  brow 

For  all  things  good  shall  plead. 


254 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  spirit  rear'd  in  patriot  fight, 

The  Virtue  burn  of  Home  and  Hearth, 

There  calmly  throned,  a  holy  light 

Shall  pour  o'er  clininless  earth. 

And  let  thnt  work  of  England's  hand. 
Bent  through  tin:  blast  and  surge's  roar, 
80  (irt  with  tranquil  glory,  stand 
For  ages  on  thy  shore  ! 

Rich  through  nil  time  the  greeting*  be, 
That  with  rtie  Atlantic  billow  sweep  1 
Telling  the  Mighty  and  the  Free 
Of  Brothers  o'er  the  Deep! 


THE  BROKEN  LUTE 

0H«  dwelt  in  proud  Venetian  halls, 
Midst   forms    that    breathed  from    the   pictured 

walls; 

But  in  a  glow  of  beauty  like  her  own. 
There  liad  no  dream  of  the  painter  thrown. 
Lit  froM  within  was  her  noble  brow. 
As  an  UiU,  whence  rays  from  a  lamp  may  flow; 
Her  your.,1,  cl-ar  cheek  had  achangeful  hue. 
As  if  ye  a  ight  see  how  the  soul  wrought  through; 
And  every  fash  of  lier  fervent  eye 
Secm'd  the  bright  wakening  of  Poesy. 

Even  thus  it  wad— from  her  childhood'!  yean,-* 
A  being  of  i.dden  smijw<  and  tears,— 
Passionate  v,  lions,  quirk  light  and  shade,— 
Such  was  tliiu  liii'h-horn  Italian  maid ! 
And  the  spirit  of  song  in  her  bowm-eell. 
Dwelt  as  the  odours  in  violets  dwell, — 
Or  as  the  SODIUM  in  Eolian  strings,— 
Or  in  aspen-lea ^s  the  quiverings ; 
There,  ever  there,  with  the  life  enshrined. 
And  waiting  the  call  of  the  faintest  wind. 

Oft,  on  the  wave  r>7  the  Adrian  sea, 

In  the  city's  hour  of.  moonlight  glee,— 

Oft  would  that  gift  rj  the  southern  sky, 

O'erttnw  from  her  li,is  in  melody  ; — 

Oft  amid  festal  halls  it  came. 

Like  the  springing  f.u-ti  of  a  sudden  flame, — 

Till  the  dance  was  Imsi.'il,  and  the  silvery  tone 

Of  her  inspiration  was  twurd  alone. 

And  Fame  went  with  her,  the  bright,  the  erown'd, 

And  Music  floated  her  steps  around; 

And  every  lay  of  her  soul  wui  borne 

Through  the  sunn  v  land,  as  0,1  wings  of  morn. 

And  was  the  daughter  of  Venice  blent, 

With  a  power  so  deep  in  her  youthful  breast  f 

Could  she  be  happy,  o'er  whose  dark  eye 

So  many  changes  and  dreams  went  by?. 

And  in  whose  check  the  swift  ciimson  wrought, 

A*  if  but  born  from  '.lie  rush  of  thought  7 

— Ye»!  in  the  brightness  of  joy  awhile 

She  moved,  as  a  bark  in  the  sunbeam's  smile; 

For  her  spirit,  as  over  her  lyre's  full  chord, 

All,  all  on  a  happy  love  was  pour'd! 

How  loves  a  heart,  whence  the  stream  of  song 

Flows    like    the    life-blond,   quick,  bright,  and 

strong  ? 

I?ow  loves  a  heart  which  hath  ever  proved 
One  breath  of  the  world  ?—  Even  so  she  loved  ! 
Blest,  though  the  lord  of  her  soul  afar. 
Was  charging  the  foremost  in  Moslem  war, — 
Rearing  the  flag  of  St.  Mark's  on  high,  . 

As  a  ruling  star  in  the  Grecian  sky. 
Proud  music  breathed  in  her  song,  when  Fame 
Gave  a  tone  more  thrilling  to  his  name; 
And  her  trust  in  his  love  was  a  woman's  faith- 
Perfect,  and  fearing  no  change  but  death. 

But  the  fields  are  won  from  the  Ottoman  hott. 
In  the  land  that  quell'd  the  Persian's  boast; 
And  a  thousand  hearts  in  Venice  burn, 
For  the  day  of  triumph  and  return  ! 
—The  day  is  come  !  the  flashing  deep 
Foams  where  the  galleys  of  victory  sweep ; 


And  the  sceptred  city  of  the  wave. 
With  her  festal  splendour,  greets  the  brave; 
Cymbal  and  clarion,  and  voire.  around. 
Make  the  air  one  stream  of  exulting  sound. 
While  the  beautiful,  with  their  sunny  smile*. 
Look  from  each  hall  of  the  hundred  isles. 

But  happiest  and  brightest  that  day  of  all. 

Robed  for  her  warrior's  festival. 

Moving  a  queen  'midst  the  radiant  throng, 

Was  she,  tit'  inspired  one,  the  maid  of  song! 

The  lute  he  loved  on  her  arm  she  bore. 

As  she  rush'd  in  her  joy  to  the  crowded  shore} 

With  a  hue  on  her  cheek  like  the  damask  glow 

By  the  sunset  given  unto  mountain  snow, 

And  her  eye  all  fill'd  with  the  spirit's  play. 

Like  the  flash  of  a  gem  to  the  changeful  day, 

And  her  long  hair  waving  in  ringlets  bright— 

So  came  that  being  of  hope  and  light ! 

—One  moment,  Erminia!  one  moment  more. 

And  life,  all  the  beauty  of  life,  is  o'er! 

The  bark  of  her  lover  hath  touch'd  the  strand — 

Whom  leads  he  forth  with  a  gentle  hand? 

—  A  young,  fair  form,  whose  nymph-like  grace 

Accorded  well  with  the  Grecian  face. 

And  the  eye,  in  its  clear  soft  darkness  meek, 

And   the  "lashes  that   droop'd  o'er  a  pale  ro»e 

cheek ; 

And  he  look'd  on  that  beauty  with  tender  pride— 
The  warrior  hath  brought  back  an  eastern  bride! 

But  how  stood  she,  the  forsaken,  there, 

Struck  by  the  lightning  of  swift  despair? 

Still,  as  amazed  with  grief,  she  stood, 

And  her  cheek  to  her  heart  sent  bnrk  the  blood 

And  there  came  from  her  quivering  lip  no  word — 

Only  the  fall  of  her  lute  was  heard. 

As  it  dropt  from  her  hand  at  her  rival's  feet. 

Into  fragments,  whose  dying  thrill  was  sweet! 

What  more  remnineth?  Her  rfay  was  done; 
Her  fate  and  the  Broken  Lute's  were  one  I 
The  light,  the  vision,  the  gift  of  power, 
Pass'd  from  her  soul  in  that  mortal  hour, 
Like  the  rich  sound  from  the  shattered  string, 
Whence  the  gush  of  sweetness  no  more  might 
spring! 

Af  an  eagle  stnick  in  his  upward  flight. 
So  was  her  hope  from  its  radiant  height. 
And  her  song  went  with  it  for  ever  more, 
A  gladness  taken  from  sea  and  shore  ! 
She  had  moved  to  the  echoing  sound  of  fame- 
Silently,  silently,  died  her  name  ! 
Silently  melted  her  life  away, 
As  ye  have  seen  a  young  flower  decay, 
Or  a  lamp  that  hath  swiftly  Jmrn'd,  expire, 
Or  a  bright  stream  shrink  from  the  Summer's  nrt. 
Leaving  its  channel  all  dry  and  mute- 
Woe  for  the  Broken  Heart  and  Lute! 


SABBATH  SONNET 

How  many  blessed  groups  this  hour  are  bending 
Through  England's  primrose  meadow  paths  rbeif 

way 
Toward   spire  and  tower,  'midst   shadowy  e!ms 

ascending, 
Whence  the  sweet  chimes  proclaim  the  hallow'd 

day  ! 

The  halte  from  old   Iteroir  age*  eray 
Pour  their  fair  children  forth  :  and  hamlets  low. 
With  those  thick  orchard  blooms  the  soft  win* 

play. 

Sent  out  their  inmates  in  a  happy  flow. 
Like  a  free  vernal  stream.     I  may  not  tread 
With  them  those  path  ways.- 1»  the  frverish  bed 
Of  sickness  hound  :— yet,  oh  my  Oo.l '  I  Mesa 
Thy  mercy,  that  with  PaMiath  |«-are  hath  fill'd 
My  chasten'd  heart,  and  all  its  throbbing*  still1* 
To  one  deep  calm  of  lowliest  thankfulness 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORK!?. 


255 


THE  CROSS  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


The  beautiful  constellation  of  the  Cron  ii  teen  only 
In  the  Southern  Hemisphere.  The  following  lines  are 
•opposed  to  be  addressed  to  it  by  a  Spanish  Traveller 
in  South  America. 


IN  the  silence  and  grandeur  of  midnight  I  tread, 
Where    savannahs,    in    boundless    magnificence, 

spread ; 
And    bearing  sublimely   their  snow-wreaths  on 

high, 
The  far  Cordilleras  unite  with  the  sky. 

The  fern-tree  waves  o'er  me,  the  ftre-fly's  red  light 
With  its  quick-glancing  splendour  illumines  the 

night. 

And  I  read  in  each  tint  of  the  skies  and  the  earth, 
How  distant  my  steps  from  the  land  of  my  birth. 

But  to  thee,  as  thy  load-stars  resplendently  burn 
In  their clearrleptlis  of  blue,  with  devotion  I  turn, 
Bright  Cross  of  the  South!— and  beholding  thee 

shine, 
Scarce  regret  the  loved  land  of  the  olive  and  vine. 

Thou  recallest  the  ages  when  first  o'er  the  main 
My  fathers  unfolded  iheerisign  of  Spain, 
And  planted  their  faith  in  the  regions  that  see 
It*  unperishing  symbol  emblazon'd  in  thee. 

How  oft  in  their  course  o'er  the  ocean's  unknown, 
Where  all  was  mysterious  and  awful  and  lone, 
Hath  their  spirit  been  cheer'd  by  thy  light,  when 

the  drrp 
Reflected  its  brilliance  in  tremulous  sleep  I 

As  the  vision  that  rose  to  the  lord  of  the  world,* 
When  first  his  bright  banner  of  faith  was  unfurl'd; 
Even  such  to  the  heroes  of  Spain,  when  their 

prow 
Made  the  billows  the  patli  of  their  glory,  wert 

UXMI! 


And  to  me  as  I  traversed  the  world  of  the  west, 
Through  deserts  of  beauty  in  stillness  that  rest ; 
By  forests  and  rivers  untamed  in  their  pride. 
Thy  beams   have   a   language,   thy  course    is    « 
guide. 

Shine  on — my  own  land  is  a  far  distant  spot. 
And  the  stars  of  thy  sphere  can  enlighten  it  not. 
And  the  eyes  that  *  lev,  !*wu,  'i  e'en  now  they 

may  be 
O'er  the  firmament  wandering,  can  gaze  not  on 

thee! 


But  thou   to   my  thoughts  a.i   a    pure-blazing 

shrine, 

A  fount  of  bright  hopes,  and  of  visions  divine; 
And  my  soul,  as  an  eagle  exulting  and  free. 
Boars  high  o'er  the  Andes  to  mingle  with  tbee. 


THE  POETRY  OF  THE  PSALMS. 


NOBLY  thy  song,  O  minstrel !  rush'd  to  meet 
'  Th'  Eternal  on  the  pathway  of  the  blast. 

With  darkness  round  him  as  a  mantle  cast 
And  cherubim  to  waft  his  flying  seat. 
Amidst  the  hills  that  smoked  beneath  his  feet. 

With  trumpet  voice  thy  spirit  call'd  aloud, 
And  bade  the  trembling  rocks  his  name  repeat. 

And  the  bent  cedars,  and  the  bursting  cloud. 
But  far  more  gloriously  to  earth  made  known 
By  that  high  strain,  than  by  the  thunder's  tone, 

Than  flashing  torrents,  or  the  ocean's  roll; 
Jehovah  spoke  through  the  inbreathing  fire, 
Nature's  vast  realms  for  ever  to  inspire 

With  the  deep  worship  of  a  living  soul. 

Dublin,  April,  IS* 


LAYS   OF  MANY  LANDS; 


AND    OTHER    POEMS. 


MOORISH  BRIDAL  SONG. 


It  i«  a  custom  among  the  Monn,  that  t  female  who  diet  Damn 
rial  is  clothed  for  interment  iu  wedding  apparel,  and  the  bridal 
•nig  ii  iuu*  over  her  reiiiaun  before  they  are  borue  from  her 
home.-  See  t/u  Narra'm  of  a  Ten  Yean'  Rctidcna  in  Tripoli, 
4y  the  nittr-in-latv  of  Mr.  Tvlly. 


THE  citron  groves  their  fruit  and  flowers  were 

strewing 

Around  a  Moorish  palace,  while  the  sigh 
'Of  low  sweet  summer-winds,  the  branches  woo 

ing, 
With  music  through  their  shadowy  bowers  wen 

by; 

Music  and  voices,  from  the  marble  halls, 
Throueli  the  leaves  gleaming,  and  the  fountain- 

falls. 

rt  gong- of  joy,  a  bridal  song  came  swelling, 
To  blend  with  fragrance  in  those  southern  shades, 
And  told  of  feasts  within  the  stately  dwelling, 
Bright   lamps,  and    dancing    steps,    and    gem- 

crown'd  maids; 

And  thus  it  flow'd  ; — yet  something  in  the  lay 
Belong'd  to  sadness,  as  it  died  away. 

"  The  bride  comes  forth  1  her  tears  no  more  are 

falling 

To  leave  the  chamber  of  her  infant  years; 
Kind  voices  from  a  distant  home  are  calling; 
She  comes  like  day-spring — she  hath  done  with 

tears  ; 

Now  must  her  dark  eye  shine  on  other  flowers, 

Her  soft  smile  gladd^M  other  hearts  than  ours! — 

Four  the  rich  odours  round! 

"  We  haste  !  the  cKtsen  and  the  lovely  bringing , 
Love  still  goes  witn  her  from  her  place  of  tirth, 
Deep,  silent  joy  wilhiirher  soul  is  springing. 
Though  in  her  glance  the  light  no  more  is  mirth  I 
Her  beauty  leaves  vs  in  its  rosy  years; 
Her  sisters  weep— but  she  Imth  done  with  tears!— 
Now  may  the  timbrel  sound  1" 

•    Know'st  thou   for  whom  they  song  the  brida. 

numbers  ? 

— One,  whose  rich  tresses  were  to  wave  no  more ! 
One,  whose  pale  cheek  soft  winds,  nor  gentle 

slumbers, 

Nor  Love's  own  sigh,  to  rose-tints  might  restore  I 
Her  graceful  ringlets  o'er  a  bier  were  spread. — 
Weep  for  the  young,  the  beautiful,— the  dead ! 


THE  SWORD  OF  THE  TOMR 

A   NORTHERN   LEGEND. 


The  idea  of  this  ballad  is  taken  from  a  srene  in  "Star- 
kother."  a  tragedy  by  the  Danish  poet  Ochlenichlager. 
(256) 


.  •.  sepulchral  fire  here  alluded  to,  and  supposed  t» 
suard  the  ashes  uf  deceased  herons,  is  frequently  men- 
tioned in  the  Northern  Sagas.  Severe  suffering*  to  the 
departed  spirit  were  supposed  hy  the  Scandinavian  my- 
thologists  to  be  the  consequence  of  any  profanation  of 
the  sepulchre. See  OcMcnscUafer's  Playt. 

"Voice  of  the  gifted  elder  time  I 
Voice  of  the  charm  nnil  the  Rnn.c  rhyme! 
Speak  !  from  the  shades  and  the  depth*  disclose, 
How  Sigurd  may  vanquish  his  mortal  foes; 
Voice  of  the  buried  past! 

"  Voice  of  the  grave  !  't  is  the  mighty  hour. 
When  Night  with  her. stars  and  dreams  hath  power 
And  my  step  hath  hoen  soundless  on  the  snows, 
And  the  spell  I  have  sung  hath  laid  repose 
On  the  billow  and  the  blast." 

Then  the  torrents  of  the  North, 
And  the  forest  pines  were  still, 
While  a  hollow  chant  came  forth 
From  the  dark  sepulchral  hill. 

"  There  shines  no  aim  'midst  the  hidden  dead. 
But  where  the  day  looks  not,  the  brave  may  tread; 
There  is  heard  no  song,  and  no  mead  is  pour'd, 
But  the  warrior  may  come  to  the  silent  board, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  night. 

"  There  is  laid  a  sword  in  thy  father's  tomb, 
And  its  edge  is  fraught  with  thy  foenian's  doom  i 
But  soft  be  thy  step  through  the  silence  deep. 
And  move  not  the  urn  in  the  house  of  sleep. 
For  the  viewless  have  fearful  might  1" 

Then  died  the  solemn  lay, 
As  a  trumpet's  music  dies, 
By  the  night-wind  borne  away 
Through  the  wild  and  stormy  skies. 

The  fir-trees  rock'd  to  the  wailing  blast, 
As  on  through  the  forest  the  warrior  pass'd, — 
Through  the  forest  of  Odin,  the  dim  and  old 
The  dark  place  of  visions  and  legends,  told 
By  the  fires  of  northern  pine. 

The  fir-trees  rock'd,  nnil  the  frozen  ground 
Gave  back  to  his  footstep  a  hollow  sound ; 
And  it  seem'd  that  the  depths  of  those  awful  shade*. 
From  the  dreary  gloom  of  their  long  arcades, 
Gave  warning,  with  voice  and  sign. 

But  the  wind  strange  magic  knows, 
To  call  wild  shape  and  tone 
From  the  gray  wood's  tossing  bough*, 
When  Night  is  on  her  throne. 

The  pines  closed  o'er  him  with  deeper  gloom, 
As  he  took  the  path  to  the  monarch's  tomb ; 
The  Pole-star  shone,  and  the  heavens  were  brigte 
With  the  arrowy  streams  of  the  Northern  light, 
Put  his  road  through  dimness  lay  I 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


2»T 


He  pass'd,  in  the  heart  of  that  ancient  wood, 
The  dark  shrine  stain'd  with  the  victim's  blood' 
JJor  paused,  till  the  rock  where  a  vaulted  bed 
Had  been  hewn  of  old  for  the  kingly  dead. 
Arose  on  his  midnight  way. 

Then  first  a  moment's  chill 
Went  shuddering  through  his  breast, 
And  th  •  steel-clad  man  stood  still 
Before  that  place  of  rest. 

(at  he  cross'd  at  length  with  a  deep-drawn  breath 
Pie  threshold-floor  of  the  hall  of  Death, 
\nd  look'd  on  the  pale  mysterious  fire 
fVhich  gleam'd  from  the  urn  of  his  warrior-sire, 
With  a  strange  and  solemn  light. 

Then  darkly  the  words  of  the  boding  strain 
Like  an  omen  rose  on  his  soul  again, 
—"Soft  be  thy  step  through  the  silence  deep, 
And  rnova  not  the  urn  in  the  house  of  sleep, 
For  this  viewless  have  fearful  might !" 

But  the  gleaming  sword  and  shield 
Of  many  a  battle-day 
Hung  o'er  that  urn,  reveal'd 
By  the  tomb-fire's  waveless  ray 

With  a  faded  wreath  of  oak-leaves  bound, 
They  hung  o'er  the  dust  of  the  far-renown'd, 
Whom  the  bright  Valkyriur's  warning  voice 
Had  c.all'd  to  the  banquet  where  gods  rejoice, 
And  the  rich  mead  flows  in  light. 

With  a  beating  heart  his  son  drew  near 
And  still  rang  the  verse  in  his  thrilling  ear, 
— "  Soft  be  thy  step  through  the  silence  deep. 
And  move  not  the  urn  in  the  house  of  sleep. 
For  the  viewless  have  fearful  might  1" 

And  many  a  Saga's  rhyme, 
And  legend  of  the  grave, 
That  shadowy  scene  and  time 
Pall'il  back  to  daunt  the  brave. 

But  he  raised  his  arm— and  the  flame  grew  dim. 
And  the  sword  in  its  light  seem'd  to  wave  and 

swim. 

And  his  faltering  hand  could  not  grasp  it  well— 
From  the  pale  oak-wreath,  with  a  clash  it  fell 

Through  the  chamber  of  the  dead! 

Tho  deep  tomb  rang  with  the  heavy  sound, 
And  the  urn  lay  shiver'd  in  fragments  round; 
And  a  rush,  as  of  tempests,  quench'd  the  fire, 
And  the  scatter'd  dust  of  his  war-like  sire 
Was  strewn  on  the  champion's  head. 

One  moment— and  all  was  still 
In  the  sliimberer's  ancient  hall, 
When  the  rock  had  ceased  to  thrill 
With  the  mighty  weapon's  fall. 

The  stars  were  just  fading,  one  by  one. 

The  clouds  were  just  tinged  by  the  early  sun, 

When  there  stream'd  through  the  cavern  a  torch's 

flame. 
And  the  brother  of  Sigurd  the  valiant  came 

To  seek  him  in  the  tomb. 

Stretch'd  on  his  shield,  like  th»  steel-girt  slain. 
By  moonlight  seen  on  the  battle-plain, 
In  a  speechless  trance  lay  the  warrior  there, 
But  he  wildly  woke  whe'n  the  torch's  glare 
llnrst  on  him  through  the  gloom. 

"  The  morning  wind  blows  free, 
And  the  hour  of  chase  is  near; 
Come  forth,  come  forth,  with  me! 
What  dost  thou,  Sigurd,  here"' 

*  I  have  put  out  the  holy  sepulchral  fire, 

1  have  scatter'd  the  dust  of  my  warrior-sire  1 

It  burns  on   my  head,  and   it  weighs  down  mv 

heart : 
But  the  winds  shall  not  wander  without  their  part 

To  strew  o'er  the  restless  deep  I 

It 


"  In  the  mantle  of  death  he  was  here  with  ma 

now, 
There  was  wrath  in  his  eye,  there  was  gloom  oa 

his  brow  ; 

And  his  cold,  still  glance  "ti  my  spirit  fell 
With  an  icy  ray  anil  a  withering  spell — 

Oh  !  chill  is  the  house  of  sleep  1" 

"The  morning  wind  blows  free, 
And  the  reddening  sun  shines  clear; 
Come  forth,  come  forth,  with  niel 
It  is  dark  and  fearful  here  !" 

"  He  is  there,  he  is  there,  with  hisshadowy  frown 
But  gone  from  his  head  is  the  kingly  crown,— 
The  crown  from  his  head,  and  the  spear  from  hit 

hand, — 
They  have  chased  him  fur  from  the  glorious  land 

Where  the  feast  of  the  gods  is  spread  ! 

"  He  must  go  forth  alone  on  his  phantom  steed, 
He  must  ride  o'er  the  grave-hills  with  stormy  speed; 
His  place  is  no  longer  at  Oilin's  board, 
He  is  driven  from  Valhalla  without  his  sword  1 
But  the  slayer  shall  avenge  the  dead  !" 

That  sword  its  fame  had  won 
By  the  fall  of  many  n  crest, 
But  its  fiercest  work  was  done 
In  the  tomb,  on  Sigurd's  breast ' 


THE  BIRD'S  RELEASE. 


The  Indians  of  Benprnl  nnd  of  the  Const  of  Malnbai 
bring  cages  filled  with  birds  to  tbe  graves  of  their  friend*, 
over  which  they  set  the  birds  at  liberty.  This  custom  ii 
alluded  to  in  the  description  of  Virginia's  funeral. — Set 
Paul  and  Virginia. 

Go  forth,  for  she  is  gone! 
With  the  golden  light  of  her  wavy  hair, 
She  is  gone  to  the  fields  of  the  viewless  airj 

She  hath  left  her  dwelling  lone  I 

Her  voice  imth  pass'd  away  ! 
Tt  hath  pass'd  away  like  a  summer  breeze,    ' 
When  it  leaves  the  lulls  for  the  far  blue  seas. 

Where  we  may  not  trace  its  way. 

Go  forth,  and  like  her  be  free  I 
With  thy  radiant  wing,  and  thy  glancing  eyw 
Thou  hast  all  the  range  of  the  sunny  sky 

And  what  is  our  grief  to  thee? 

Is  it  aught  ev'n  to  her  we  mourn? 
Doth  she  look  on  the  tears  by  her  kindred  shedT 
Doth  she  rest  with  the  flowers  o'er  her  gentle  held 

Or  float  on  the  light  wind  borne? 

We  know  not— but  she  is  gone' 
Her  step  from  the  dance,  her  voice  from  the  song. 
And  the  smile  of  her  eye  from  the  festal  throngs- 
She  hath  left  her  dwelling  lone  I 

When  the  waves  at  sunset  shine, 
We  may  hear  thy  voice,  amidst  thousands  more, 
In  the  scented  woods  of  our  glowing  shore, 

But  we  shall  not  know  'tis  thine! 

Ev'n  so  with  the  loved  one  flown  I 
Her  smile  in  the  starlight  may  wander  by, 
Her  breath  may  be  near  in  the  wind's  low  sigh, 

Around  us— but  all  in. Known. 

Go  forth,  we  have  looked  thy  rhain! 
We  may  deck  thy  case  with  the  richest  flowers, 
Which  the  bright  day  rears  in  our  eastern  bower* 

But  thou  wilt  not  be  lured  aguin. 

Ev'n  thus  may  the  summer  pour 
All  fragrant  tilings  on  the  land's  green  lireart, 
And  the  glorious  earth  like  a  bride  be  dresg'd. 

But  it  wins  her  back  no  morel 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


VALKYRIUR    SONG. 


The  Vulkyriur,  or  Fatal  Sisters  of  Nurthern  mytho 
logy,  wure  supposed  to  single  out  the  warriors  who  were 
In  die  in  battle,  and  be  received  into  the  halls  <>('  Odin. 

When  a  Northern  chief  fell  gloriously  in  war,  his  ob- 
sequies were  honoured  with  all  possible  magnificence 
Higiirms.gold  and  silver,  war-horse,  domestic  attend- 
ants, and  whatever  else  he  held  most  dear,  were  placed 
with  him  on  the  pile.  His  dependents  and  friend*  fre- 
quently made  it  a  point  of  honour  to  die  with  their  lend- 
«•> ,  in  order  to  attend  on  his  shade  in  Vnlhalla.  or  the 
Palace  of  Odin.  And  lastly,  his  wife  was  generally 

consumed  with  him  on  the  same  pile. See  Mallet'f 

Mortkrnt  Antiquities,  Herbert's  f/t/ga.  <Sre. 


Tremblingly  tiash'd  th>  inconstant  meteor  light, 
Showing  ihin  forms  like  virgins  of  thii  earth, 
Save  that  all  sign!  of  human  joy  or  grief, 
Tin-  flush  of  passion  smile  or  tear,  lad  leern'd 
On  'he  lix'.l  brightness  of  each  dazzling  cheek 
Strange  and  unnatural.  Afilman. 


THK  Sea-king  woke  from  the  troubled  sleep 

Of  a  vision  -haunted  night, 
And  he  lookM  from  his  bark  o'er  the  gloomy  deep 
And  counted  the  streaks  of  light; 
For  the  red  sun's  earliest  raj 
Was  to  rouse  his  hands  that  day. 
To  the  stormy  joy  of  fight  I 

But  the  dreams  of  rest  were  still  on  earth, 

And  the  silent  stars  on  high, 
And  there  waved  not  the  smoke  of  one  cabin  hearth 
'Midst  the  quiet  of  the  sky; 
And  along  the  twilight  bay, 
In  their  sleep  the  hamlets  lay. 
For  they  knew  not  the  Norse  were  nigh! 

The  Sea-king  look'd  o'er  the  brooding  ware, 

He  turn'd  to  the  dusky  shore, 
And  there  seem'd,  through  the  arch  of  a  tide-worn 

cave, 

A  gleam,  as  of  snow,  to  pour; 
And  forth,  iJi  watery  light, 
Moved  phantoms,  dimly  white, 
Which  the  garb  of  woman  bore. 

Slowly  they  moved  to  the  billow  side ; 

And  the  forms,  us  they  grew  more  clear, 
Heem'd  each  on  a  tall,  pale  steed  to  ride. 
And  a  shadowy  crest  to  rear. 
And  to  beckon  with  faint  hand 
From  the  dark  and  rocky  strand. 
And  to  point  a  gleaming  spear, 

rhen  a  stillness  on  his  spirit  fell, 

Before  th'  unearthly  train, 
Por  he  knew  Valhalla's  daughters  well, 
The  Choosers  of  the  slain  ! 
And  a  sudden  rising  breezf 
Bore,  across  the  moaning  seas, 
To  his  ear  their  thrilling  strain. 

"There  are  songs  in  Odin's  Hall, 
For  the  brave,  ere  night  to  fall ! 
Doth  the  great  sun  hide  his  ray?— 
He  must  bring  a  wrathful  day! 
Sleeps  the  falchion  in  its  sheath? — 
Swords  must  do  the  work  of  death  1 
Regnerl— Sea-king! — tkee  we  call !— 
There  is  joy  in  Odin's  Hall. 

'  At  the  feast  and  in  the  song, 
Thou  shall  be  rememher'd  longl 
By  the  green  isles  nf  the  flood 
Thou  hast  left  thy  track  in  b!<>odt 
On  the  earth  and  on  the  sea. 
There  arc  those  will  speak  of  theel 
'Tis  enough,— the  war-gods  call, — 
There  is  mead  in  OJin's  Hall  I 


"  Regner!  tell  thy  fair-hair'd  bride 

She  must  slumber  at  thy  side! 

Tell  the  brother  of  thy  breast, 

E'en  for  him  thy  grave  hath  rest! 

Tell  the  raven  steed  which  bore  thae. 

When  the  wil.-l  wolf  fled  before  thee. 

He,  too,  with  his  lord  must  fall, — 

There  is  room  in  Odin's  Hall ! 

"Lol  the  mighty  sun  looks  forth— 

Arm  !  thou  leader  of  the  north  I 

Lo !  the  mists  of  twilight  fly,— 

VV  :  must  vanish,  thou  must  die  I 

By  the  sword  and  by  the  spear, 

By  the  hand  that  knows  not  fear, 

Sea-king!  nobly  shall  thou  fall  !— 

There  is  joy  in  O.lin's  Hall !" 
There  was  arming  heard  on  land  and  wave, 

When  afar  the  sunlight  spread, 
And  the  phantom  forms  of  the  tide-worn  tart 
With  the  mists  of  morning  fled. 

But  at  eve,  the  kingly  hand 

Of  the  battle-axe  and  brand, 
Lay  cold  on  a  pile  of  dead  ! 

SWISS  SONG, 

ON   THE   ANN'IVERSARY  OP  AN  ANCIENT  BATTLE. 


The  Swiss,  even  to  our  days,  have  continued  to  ceh) 
brate  the  anniversaries  ot'their  ancient  butt  IKS  with  much 
solemnity ;  assembling  in  the  open  air  on  the  fields  where 
their  ancestors  fought,  to  hear  thanksgivings  offered  up 
by  the  priests,  and  the  names  of  all  who  shared  in  »h» 
glory  of  the  day  enumerated.  They  afterwards  walk  in 
procession  to  chapels,  always  erected  in  the  vicinity  of 
such  scenes,  where  masses  arc  sung  for  the  souls  of  tb* 

departed. See  Planta't  History  of  the  HWtwtu 

Confederacy. 

LOOK  on  the  white  Alps  round! 

If  yet  they  gird  a  land 
Where  freedom's  voice  and  step  are  found, 

Forget  ye  not  the  band, 
The  faithful  band,  our  sires,  who  fell 
Here,  in  the  narrow  battle  dell ! 

If  yet,  the  wilds  among, 

Our  silent  hearts  may  burn. 
When  the  deep  mountain-horn  hath  rung, 

And  home  our  steps  may  turn,— 
Home!— home!— if  still  that  name  be  dear. 
Praise  to  the  men  who  perish'd  here! 

Look  on  the  white  Alps  round ! 

Up  to  their  shining  snows 
That  day  the  stormy  rolling  sound. 

The  sound  of  battle,  rose  ! 
Their  caves  prolong'd  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Their  dark  pines  irembled  as  it  pass'd  I 

They  saw  the  princely  crest, 

They  saw  the  knightly  spear, 
The  banner  and  the  mail-clad  breast. 

Borne  down,  and  trampled  here! 
They  saw — and  glorying  there  they  stand, 
Eternal  records  to  the  land  I 

Praise  to  the  mountain-born. 

The  brethren  of  tin;  glen  1 
By  them  no  steel  array  was  worn, 

They  stood  as  peasant-men  1 
They  left  the  vineyard  and  the  field 
To  break  an  empire's  lunce  and  shield  t 

Look  on  the  white  Alps  round  I 

If  yet,  along  llit-ir  steeps, 
Our  children's  fearless  fuel  may  bound, 

Free  as  the  chamois  leaps : 
Teach  them  in  song  to  bless  the  band 
Amidst  whose  mossy  graves  we  stand  I 

If,  by  the  wood-fire's  bla/.c, 

When  winter  stars  gleam  cold, 
The  glorious  tales  of  elder  days 

May  proudly  yet  be  told, 
Forget  not  then  the  shepherd  race, 
Who  made  the  hearth  a  holy  place! 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


259 


Look  on  the  white  Alps  round) 

If  yet  the  Sabbath-hell 
Comes  o'er  them  with  a  gladdening  sound, 

Think  of  the  battle  dell ! 
For  blood  first  bathed  its  flowery  sod, 
Thai  chaiuless  hearts  might  worship  God! 


THE  CAVERN  OF  THE  THREE  TELLS. 

SWISS  TRADITION. 


The  three  founders  of  the  Helvetic  Confederacy  are 
thought  to  sleep  in  a  cavern  near  the  Lake  of  Lucerne. 
The  herdsmen  call  them  the  Three  Tells ;  and  say  that 
they  lie  there  in  their  antique  garb,  in  quiet  slumber; 
and  when  Switzerland  is  in  her  utmost  need,  they  will 

awaken  and  regain  the  liberties  of  the  land. See 

Quarterly  Review,  No.  44. 

The  Grutli,  where  the  confederates  held  their  nightly 
meetings,  is  a  meadow  mi  the  shore  of  the  Luke  of  Lu- 
cerne, or  Lake  of  the  Purest-cantons,  here  called  the 
Forest-sea. 

OH  !  enter  not  yon  shadowy  cave, 
Seek  not  the  bright  spars  there, 
Though  the  whispering  pines  that  o'er  it  wave 
With  freshness  fill  the  air: 

For  there  the  Patriot  Three, 
In  the  garb  of  old  array'd, 
By  their  native  Forest-sea 
On  a  rocky  couch  are  laid. 

The  Patriot  Three  that  met  of  yore, 

Beneath  the  midnight  sky,  • 

And  leagued  their  hearts  on  the  Grutli  shore, 
In  the  name  of  liberty! 

Now  silently  they  sleep 

Amidst  the  hills  they  freed; 
But  their  rest  is  only  deep, 

Till  their  country's  hour  of  need. 

They  start  not  at  the  hunter's  call. 

Nor  the.  Lammer-geyer's  cry, 
Nor  the  rush  of  a  sudden  torrent's  fall, 
Nor  the  Lauwine  thundering  by  ! 
And  the  Alpine  herdsman's  lay, 
To  a  Switze.r's  heart  so  dear! 
On  the  wild  wind  floats  away, 
No  more  for  them  to  hear 

But  when  the  battle-horn  is  blown 

Till  the  Schreckhorn's  peaks  reply, 
When  the  Jungfrau's  cliffs  s<>nd  back  the  ton* 
Through  their  eagles'  lonely  sky ; 

When  spear-heads  light  the  lakes, 
When  trumpets  loose  the  snows. 
When  Urn  rushing  war-steed  shakes 
The  glacier's  mute  repose  ; 

When  Uri's  beechen  woods  wave  red 

In  the  burning  hamlet's  light; — 
Then  from  the  cavern  of  the  dead. 
Shall  the  sleepers  wake  in  might) 

With  a  leap,  like  Toll's  proud  leap. 

When  away  the  helm  he  flung,* 
And  boldly  up  the  steep 
From  the  flashing  billow  sprung) 

They  shall  wake  beside  their  Forest-sea, 

In  the  ancient  garb  they  wore 
When  they  link'd  the  hands  that  made  us  free, 
On  the  Griitli's  moonlight  shore  : 
And  their  voices  shall  be  heard, 

And  he  answer'd  with  a  shout, 

Till  the  echoing  Alps  are  stirr'd. 

And  the  signal-tires  blaze  out. 

And  the  land  shall  see  such  deeds  again 

As  those  of  that  proud  day. 
When  Winkelried,  on  Sempach's  plain, 

Through  the  serried  spears  made  way; 


•  The  point  of  rock  on  which  Tell  leaped  from  the  boat  of  0«» 
•  it  marked  by  a  chape!,  and  called  the  TtUaufrung. 


And  when  the  rocks  came  down 
On  the  dark  Morgarten  dell, 

And  the  crown'd  casques,*  o'nrthrown. 
Before  our  fathers  fell ! 

For  the  Kiihreihen'sf  notes  must  never  sound 

In  a  land  that  wears  the  chain, 
And  the  vines  on  freedom's  holy  ground 
Untrampled  must  remain  ! 

And  the  yellow  harvests  wave 

For  no  stranger's  hand  to  reap, 
While  within  their  silent  cave 
The  men  of  Grutli  sleep! 


THE   MESSENGER   BIRD. 


Some  of  the  Brazilians  pay  great  attention  to  a  cer- 
tain bird  that  sings  mournfully  in  the  night-time.  They 
say  it  is  a  messenger  which  their  deceased  friends  and 
relations  have  sent,  and  that  it  brings  them  news  from 
the  other  world. See  Picart's  Ceremonies  and  Re- 
ligious Customs. 


THOO  art  come  from  the  spirit's  land,  thou  bird) 
Thou  art  come  from  the  spirit's  land  ! 

Through  the  dark  pine-grove  let  thy  voice  be  heard 
And  tell  of  the  shadowy  band! 

We  know  that  the  bowers  are  green  and  fair 
In  the  light  of  that  summer  shore, 

And  we  know  that  the  friends  we  have  lost  art 

there, 
They  are  there  —  and  they  weep  no  more  ! 

And  we  know  they  have  quench'd  their  fever'* 
thirst, 

From  the  Fountain  of  Youth  ere  now,J 
For  there  must  the  stream  in  its  freshness  burst, 

Which  none  may  find  below  I 

And  we  know  that  they  will  not  be  lured  to  earth 

From  the  land  of  deathless  dowers, 
By  the  feast,  or  the  dance,  or  the  song  of  mirth, 
Though  their  hearts  were  once  with  ours  : 

Though  they  sat  with  us  by  the  night-fire's  blaze, 

And  bent  with  us  tin:  bow, 
And  heard  the  tales  of  our  father's  days, 

Which  are  told  to  others  now  1 

Rut  tell  us,  thou  bird  of  the  solemn  strain! 

Can  those  who  have  loved  forget  ? 
We  call—  and  they  answer  not  again  — 

Do  they  love—  do  they  love  us  yet? 

Doth  the  warrior  think  of  his  brother  there, 

And  the  father  of  his  child  ? 
And  the  chief,  of  those  that  were  wont  to  share 

His  wanderings  through  the  wild  ? 

We  call  them  far  through  the  silent  night, 
And  they  speak  not  from  cave  or  hill  ; 

We  know,  thou  bird  I  that  their  land  is  bright, 
But  say,  do  they  love  there  still  ? 


*  Crowned  Helmttt,  ai  a  distinction  of  rank,  are  mentioned  ia 
imond'i  Switzerland. 


»  The  Knhreihen.  the  celebrated  Rani  d>»  Vnc  Vt. 

£  An  expedition  was  actually  undertaken  by  Juan  Ponce  if,  Leoo, 
in  the  16th  century,  with  the  view  of  discovering  a  wonderful  foun- 
tain, believed  by  Ihe  natives  nf  Puerto  Rico  to  spring  in  one  of  the 
Lucayo  Isles,  and  to  possess  the  virtue  of  restoring;  youth  to  all  whs) 
batlied  In  Its  waters.  -  S«  Rotor  tim'i  Kilters/  of  Amrtc*. 


260 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  STRANGER  IN  LOUISIANA, 

An  early  traveller  mentions  a  people  on  the  banks  ol 
the  Mississippi  who  burst  into  tears  at  the  sight  of  a 
•tranger.  The  roaion  of  this  is,  that  they  fancy  their 
deceased  friends  and  relations  to  be  gone  on  a  journey 
and  being  in  constant  expectation  of  their  return,  look 
for  them  vainly  amongst  these  foreign  travellers.— Pi- 
cart's  Ceremonies  and  Religious  Custotns. 

"J'ai  passe  moi-meme,"  says  Chateaubriand  in  his 
Souvenirs  d'Amerique,  "  chi'z  une  peuplade  Indienne 
qui  se  prenait  a  pleurer  a  la  vue  d'un  voyaeeur,  parce 
qu'il  lui  rnppelait  des  amis  partis  pour  la  Con  tree  del 
Ames,  et  depuis  long-terns  en  voyage." 

WE  saw  thee,  O  stranger,  and  wept! 
We  look'd  for  the  youth  of  tlie  sunny  glance. 
Whose  step  was  the  fleetest  in  chase  or  dance, 
The  light  of  his  eye  was  a  joy  to  sue, 
The  path  of  his  arrows  a  storm  to  flee ! 
But  there  came  a  voice  from  a  distant  shore, 
He  was  call'd — he  is  found  'miilst  his  tribe  no  mort>\ 
He  is  not  in  his  place  when  the  night-fires  burn, 
But  we  look  for  him  still— he  will  yet  return ! — 
His  brother  sat  with  a  drooping  brow 
In  the  gloom  of  the  shadowing  cypress  bough; 
We  roused  him — we  hade  him  no  longer  pine, 
For  we  heard  a  step— but  the  step  was  thine. 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger,  and  wept! 
We  look'd  for  the  maid  of  the  mournful  song- 
Mournful,  though  sweet— she  hath  left  us  longl 
We  told  her  the  youth  of  her  love  was  gone. 
And  she  went  forth  to  seek  him— she  pass'd  alone 
We  hear  not  her  voice  when  the  woods  are  still. 
Prom  the  bower  where  it  sang,  liko  a  silvery  rill. 
The  joy  of  her  sire  with  her  smile  is  fled, 
The  winter  is  white  on  his  lonely  head, 
He  hath  none  by  his  side  when  the  wilds  we  track, 
He  hath  none  when  we  rest — yet  she  comes  not 

back  ! 

We  look'd  for  her  eye  on  the  feast  to  shine. 
For  her  bree/.y  steo— but  the  step  was  thine! 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger,  and  wept ! 
We  look'd  for  the  chief  who  hath  left  the  spear 
And  the  bow  of  his  battles  forgotten  here  I 
We  look'd  for  the  hunter,  whose  bride's  lament 
On  the  wind  of  the  forest  at  eve  is  sent : 
We  look'd  for  the  first-born,  whose  mother's  cry 
Sounds  wild  and  shrill  through  the  midnight  sky! — 
Where  are  they?  —  thou'rt  seeking  some  distant 

coast— 

Oh,  ask  of  them,  stranger!— send  hack  the  lost! 
Tell  them  we  mourn  by  the  dark  Dlue  streams. 
Tell  them  our  lives  but  of  them  are  dreams! 
Tell,  how  we  sat  in  the  gloom  to  pine. 
And  to  watch  for  a  step— but  the  step  was  thine ! 


THE  BENDED  BOW. 

(t  it  supposed  that  war  was  anciently  proclaimed  in 
Britain  by  sending  messengers  in  different  directions 
through  the  land,  each  bearing  n  bmtlnt  bow  ;  and  that 
peace  WHS  in  like  manner  announced  by  a  how  unstrung, 
and  therefore  straight. — See  the  Cambrian  Antiquities 


.  TIIKRK  wax  heard  the  sound  of  a  coming  foe, 
There  was  sent  through  Britain  a  Bended  Bow, 
And  a  voice  was  pour'd  on  the  free  winds  far, 
A*  the  land  rose  up  at  the  sign  of  war. 

"  Heard  ye  not  the  battle-horn  ?— 
Reaper !  leave  thy  golden  corn  ! 
I-eavp  it  for  the  hints  of  Heaven, 
Swords  must  flash,  and  spears  be  riven  I 
Leave  it  for  the  winds  lo  shed — 
Arm!  ere  Britain's  turf  grow  red!" 

And  the  reaper  arm'd.  like  a  freeman's  son, 
And  the  L!.-n  led  Bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  on. 


"Hunter!  leave  the  mountain-chase  I 
Take  the  falchion  from  its  place  ! 
Let  the  wolf  go  free  to-day. 
Leave  him  for  a  nobler  prey! 
Let  the  deer  ungall'd  sweep  by, — 
Arm  thee  !  Britain's  foes  are  nigh!" 

And  the  hunter  arm'd  ere  the  chnse  was  done, 
And  the  Bended  Bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  on. 

"Chieftain  !  quit  the  joyous  feast! 
Stay  not  till  the  song  hafh  ceas'd  : 
Though  the  meail  he  foaming  bright. 
Though  the  fires  give  ruddy  lisht. 
Leave  the  hearth,  and  leave  the  hall- 
Arm  thee  1  Britain's  foes  must  fall." 

And  the  chieftain  arm'd,  and  the  horn  was  blows 
And  the  Bended  How  and  the  voice  pass'd  on. 

"  Prince!  thy  father's  deeds  are  told. 
In  the  bower  and  in  the  hold  ! 
Where  the  goatherd's  lay  is  sung, 
Where  the  minstrel's  harp  is  strung  I—- 
Foes are  on  thy  native  sea- 
Give  our  bards  a  tale  of  thee!" 

And  the  prince  came  arm'd,  like  a  leader's  son, 
And  the  Bended  Bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  on. 

"Mother!  stay  thou  not  thy  boy! 
He  must  learn  the  battle's  joy. 
Sister  !  bring  the  sword  and  spear. 
Give  thy  brother  words  of  cheer  I 
.      Maiden"!  hid  thy  lover  part, 

Britain  culls  the  strong  in  heart !" 

And  the  Bended  Bow  and  the  voice  pass'd  OB, 
And  the  hards  made  song  for  a  battle  won. 


THE  ISLE  OF  FOUNTS. 

AN   INDIAN   TRADITION. 


"The  river  St.  Mary  has  it*  source  from  a  vast  lake 
or  marsh,  which  lies  between  Flini  and  Oukmulge  rivers, 
anu  occupies  a  space  of  near  ihr«e  hundred  miles  in  cir- 
cuit. This  vast  accumulation  ut  waters,  in  the  wet  sea- 
son, appears  as  a  lake,  anil  contains  some  large  island* 
or  knolls  of  rich  high  land;  one  ut'  which  the  present 
generation  of  the  Creek  Indians  represent  to  be  a  mo»t 
blissful  spot  of  earth  :  they  say  it  is  inhabited  by  a  pe- 
culiar race  of  Indians,  wliose  women  are  incomparably 
beautiful.  They  nlso  tell  you  that  tins  n-rresirial  para- 
dise has  been  seen  by  some  of  then  enterprising  hunters, 
when  in  pursuit  of  game  ;  but  that  in  their  endeavours 
to  approach  it,  they  were  involved  in  perpeiu  il  laby- 
rinths, and,  like  enchanted  land,  still  as  Ihey  imagined 
they  had  just  gained  it,  it  seemed  to  fly  before  ilium,  al 
tcrnalely  appearing  and  disappearing.  They  resolved 
at  length,  to  leave  the  delusive  puisuil.  and  lo  return, 
which,  alter  a  number  of  difficulties,  they  effected. 
When  they  reported  their  adventures  to  their  country- 
men, the  young  warriors  were  inflamed  with  an  irre 
sistiblc  desire  to  invade,  anil  mnke  a  conquest  of  so 
charming  a  country  ;  but  all  their  at  tempts  have  hitherto 
proved  abortive,  never  having  been  able  to  rind  that  en- 
chanting spot."— Martram'a  Triads  tkrougk  JYort) 
and  South  Carolina,  Sfc. 

The  additional  circumstances  in  the  "Isle  of  Founts" 
are  merely  imaginary. 


SON  of  the  stranger!  wouldst  thou  take 

O'er  yon  btue  hills  thy  lonely  way. 
To  reach  the  still  and  shining  hike 

Along  whose  banks  the  west  winds  play  t— 
Let  no  vain  dreams  thy  heart  beguile, 
Oh  I  seek  thou  nut  the  Fountain  Isle  ! 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


281 


I  see  the  pines  thure  waving  yet,  I  see  the  rills 

descend, 
I  set  thy  noriiding  step  no  more— my  brother  and 

my  friend  1 

•  I  come  with  flowers— for  Spring  is  come!— Ian- 

this!  art  thou  here! 
I  bring  the  garlands  she  hath  brought,  I  cast  them 

on  thy  bier! 
Thou  shouldst  be  crown'd  with  victory's  crown — 

but  <>h  !  more  meet  they  seem. 
The  first  faint  violets  of  the  wood,  and  lilies  of  the 

stream  ! 
More  meet  for  one  so  fondly  loved,  and  laid  thus 

early  low — 

Alas !  how  sadly  sleeps  thy  face  amidst  the  sun- 
shine's glow: 
flie  golden  glow  that  through  thy  heart  was  wont 

such  joy  to  send, — 
Woe !  that  it  smiles,  and  not  for  thee  1— my  brother 

and  my  friend  1" 


THE  PARTING  SONG. 


This  piece  is  founded  on  a  tale  related  by  Fauriel,  in 
nis  "  Chansons  Populaires  de  la  Grece  Moderne,"  and 
accompanied  by  some  very  interesting  particulars  re- 
specting the  extempore  parting  songs,  or  songs  of  expa- 
triation, as  he  informs  us  they  are  called,  in  which  the 
modern  Greeks  are  accustomed  to  pour  forth  their  feel- 
ings on  bidding  farewell  to  their  country  and  friends. 


A  YOUTH  went  forth  to  exile,  from  a  home 
Such  as  to  early  thought  gives  images, 
The  longest  treasured,  and  most  off  recall'd. 
And  brightest  kept,  of  love;— a  mountain  home. 
That,  with  the  murmur  of  its  rocking  pines 
And  sounding  waters,  first  in  childhood's  heart 
Wakes  the  deep  sense  ol  nature  unto  joy. 
And  half  unconscious  prayer ;— a  Grecian  home, 
With  the  transparence  of  blue  skies  o'erhung. 
And,  through  the  dimness  of  its  olive  shades, 
Catching  the  flash  of  fountains,  and  the  gleam 
Of  shining  pillars  from  the  fanes  of  old. 

And  this  was  what  he  left! — Yet  many  leave 
Far  more:— the  glistening  eye,  that  first  from  theira 
Call'd  out  the  soul's  bright  smile  ;  the  gentle  hand, 
Which  through  the  sunshine  led  forth  infant  steps 
To  where  the  violets  lay  ;  the  tender  voice 
That  earliest  taught  them  what  deep  melody 
Lives  in  affliction's  tones. — He  left  not  these. 
Happy  the  weeper,  that  but  weeps  to  part 
With  all  a  mother's  love! — A  bitterer  grief 
Was  his— To  part  unloved! — of  her  unloved, 
That   should  have  breathed  upon  his  heart,  like 

spring 
Fostering  its  young  faint  flowers! 

Yet  had  he  friends. 

And  they  went  forth  to  cheer  him  on  his  way 
Unto  the  parting  spot ; — and  she  too  went, 
That  mother,  tearless  for  her  youngest-born. 
Tire;  parting  spot  was  reach'd  : — a  lone  deep  glen, 
Holy,  perchance,  of  yore,  for  cave  and  fount 
Were  there,  and  sweet-voiced  echoes  ;  and  above. 
The  silence  of  the  blue,  still,  upper  Heaven 
Hung  round  the  crags  of  Pindns,  where  they  wore 
Their  crowning  snows.— Upon  a  rock  he  sprung, 
The  unbekived  one,  for  his  home  to  gaze 
Through  the  wild  laurels  back  ;  but  then  a  light 
Broke  on  the  stern,  proud  sadness  ot'  his  eye, 
A  sudden  quivering  light,  and  from  his  lipe 
A  burst  of  passionate  song. 

"  Farewell,  farewell  I 
"  I  hear  thee,  O  thou  rushing  stream  !  —  tbou'r: 

from  my  native  dell, 

Thou'rt  bearing  thence  a  mournful  sound — a  mur- 
mur of  farewell ! 


And  fare  tkee well—  flow  on,  my  stream!  flow  on, 
thou  bright  and  freel 

1  do  but  dream  that  in  thy  voice  one  tone  lament* 
for  me : 

But  I  have  been  a  thing  unloved,  from  childhood** 
loving  years. 

And  therefore  turns  my  soul  to  thee,  for  thou  haM 
known  my  tears ; 

The  mountains,  and  the  caves,  and  thou,  my  se- 
cret tears  have  known  ; 

The  woods  can  tell  where  he  hath  wept,  that  ever 
wept  alone  I 

"  I  see  thee  once  again,  my  home  I  thou'rt  tin  T« 

amidst  thy  vines. 
And  clear  upon  thy  gleaming  roof  the  light  of  sum 

mer  shines. 
It  is  a  joyous  hour  when  eve  comes  whispering 

through  thy  groves, 
The  hour  that  brings  the  son  from  toil,  the  hour 

the  mother  loves ! — 
The  hour  the  mother  loves  1— for  me  beloved  it  hath 

not  been ; 
Yet  ever  in  its  purple  smile,  thou  smil'st,  a  blessed 

scene! 
.Whose  quiet  beauty  o'er  my  soul  through  distant 

years  will  come — 
'et  what  but  as  the  dead  to  thee,  shall  I  be  then, 

my  home? 

••  Not  as  the  dead  !— no,  not  the  dead!— We  speak 

of  them— we  keep 
Their  names,  like  light  that  must  not  fade,  within 

our  bosoms  deep! 
We  hallow  ev'n  the  lyre  they  touch'd,  we  love  th« 

lay  they  sung, 
W<-  pass  witli  softer  step  the  place  they  lill'd  our 

band  among  I 
But  I  depart  like  sound,  like  dew,  like  aught  that 

leaves  on  earth 
Vo  trace  of  sorrow  or  delight,  no  memory  of  iu 

birth  I 
I  got — the  echo  of  the  rock  a  thousand  songs  may 

swell 

When  mine  is  a  forgotten  voice. — Woods,  moun- 
tains, home,  farewell ! 

"  And  farewell,  mother !— I  have  borne  in  lonely 
silence  long, 

But  now  the  current  of  my  soul  grows  passionate 
and  strong  1 

And  I  will  speak  !  though  but  the  wind  that  wan- 
ders through  the  sky, 

And  but  the  dark,  deep-rustling  pines  and  rolling 
streams  reply. 

Yes  I  I  will  speak  I— within  my  breast  whatever 
hath  seem'd  to  be, 

There  lay  a  hidden  fount  of  love,  that  would  have 
gush'd  for  thee  1 

Brightly  it  would  have  gush'd,  but  thou,  my  mo- 
ther !  thou  hast  thrown 

Back  on  the  forests  and  the  wilds  what  eboufcl 
have  been  thine  own  1 

"  Then  fare  thee  well  1  I  leave  thee  not  in  loneli- 
ness to  pine, 

Since  thou  hast  sons  of  statelier  mien  and  fairer 
brow  than  mine  I 

Forgive  me  that  thou  couldel  not  love  1— it  may  b« 
that  a  tone 

Yet  from  my  burning  heart  may  pierce  through 
thine,  when  I  am  gone  I 

And  thou,  perchance,  may'st  weep  for  him  on 
whom  thou  ne'er  hast  smiled, 

And  the  grave  give  his  birthright  back  to  thy  neg- 
lected child ! 

Might  but  my  spirit  th.cn  return,  and  "midst  its  kin- 
dred dwell. 

And  quench  its  thirst  with  love's  free  tears !— T  is 
all  a  dream— farewell !" 

"  Farewell ! — the  echo  died  with  .hat  deep  word 
Yet  died  not  so  the  late  repentant  pang 
By  the  strain  quicken'd  in  the  mother's  breast 
The-e  had  pass'd  many  changes  o'er  her  brow. 
And  cheek,  and  eye ;  'but  into  one  bright  flood 


262 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  solemn  were  tin:  strains  they  pnur'd 
Through  the  stillness  of  the  night. 

With  the  cross  above,  and  the  crown  and  (word. 
And  the  silent  king  in  sight. 

There  was  heard  a  heavy  clang, 

As  of  steel-girt  men  the  tread, 
And  the  tombs  and  the  hollow  pavement  rang 

With  a  sounding  thrill  of  dread ; 
And  the  holy  chant  was  hush'd  awhile. 

As  by  the  torch's  flame, 
A  gleam  of  arms,  up  the  sweeping  aisle, 

With  a  mail-clad  leader  came. 

He  came  with  haughty  look, 

An  eagle-glance  and  clear, 
But  his  proud  heart  through  its  breastplate  shook 

When  he  stood  beside  the  bier ! 
He  stood  there  still  with  a  drooping  brow. 

And  clasp'd  hands  o'er  it  raised ; — 
For  his  father  lay  before  htm  low. 

It  was  Coeur      Lion  gazed  I 

And  silently  he  strove 

With  the  workings  of  his  breast, — 
But  there's  more  in  late  repentant  lore 

Than  steel  may  keep  suppress'd ! 
And  his  tears  brake  forth,  at  last,  like  rain,— 

Men  held  their  breath  in  awe. 
For  his  face  was  seen  by  his  warrior-train. 

And  he  reck'd  not  that  they  saw. 

He  look'd  upon  the  dead, 

And  sorrow  seem'd  to  lie, 
A  weight  of  sorrow,  ev'n  like  lead, 

Pale  on  the  fast-shut  eye. 
He  stoop'd— and  kiss'd  Die  frozen  cheek. 

And  the  heavy  hand  of  clay. 
Till  bursting  words— yet  all  too  weak — 

Gave  his  soul's  passion  way. 

"  Oh,  father !  is  it  vain. 

This  late  remorse  and  deep  ? 
Speak  to  me,  father!  once  again, 

I  weep— behold,  I  weep  ' 
Mas  !  my  guilty  pride  and  ire  I 

Were  but  this  work  undone, 
I  would  give  England's  crown,  nay  sir* 

To  hear  thee  bless  thy  son. 

"  Speak  to  roe !  mighty  grief 

Ere  now  the  dust  hath  stirr'dl 
Hear  me,  but  hear  me !— father,  chief, 

My  kingl  I  must  be  heard  !— 
Hush'd,  hush'd— how  is  it  that  I  call, 

And  that  thou  ansvrerest  not  1 
When  was  it  thus?— woe,  woe  for  all 

The  love  my  soul  forgot ! 

"  Thy  silver  hairs  I  see, 

So  still,  so  sadly  bright ! 
And  father,  father !  but  for  me 

They  had  not  been  so  white ! 
/  bore  thee  down,  high  heart '.  at  last. 

No  longer  couldst  thou  strive  ;— 
Oh !  for  one  moment  of  the  past, 

To  kneel  and  say — '  forgive  r 

"  Thou  wert  the  noblest  king, 

On  royal  throne  e'er  seen  ; 
And  thou  didst  wear,  in  knightly  ring. 

Of  all,  the  stateliest  mien  ; 
And  thou  didst  prove,  where  spears  are  proved 

In  war,  the  bravest  heart — 
Oh !  ever  the  renown'd  and  loved 

Thou  wert— and  there  thou  art ! 

"Thou  that  my  boyhood's  guide 

Didst  take  fond  joy  to  be ! — 
The  time*  I've  sported  at  thy  side, 

Andelimb'd  thy  parent  knee! 
And  there  before  the  blessed  shrine. 

My  sire  !  I  see  thee  lie,— 
How  will  that  sad,  still  face  of  thine 

Look  on  me  till  I  die?" 

K— 


THE  VASSAL'S  LAMENT  FOR  THE 
FALLEN  TREE. 


"Here  (at  Tape  Brereton  in  Cheshire)  is  one  thing  in 
credibly  slr.nge.  but  attested,  as  1  myself  have  heard 
by  many  persons,  and  commonly  believed.  Before  an) 
heir  <A  this  family  dies,  there  are  seen,  in  a  lake  adjoin 
ing,  the  bodies  of  trees  swimming  on  (he  water  tors* 
veral  days." Camdtn's  JSrilannia. 


YES!  I  have  seen  the  ancient  oak. 

On  the  dark,  deep  water  cast, 
And  it  was  not  fell'd  by  the  woodman's  stroke, 

Or  tlie  rush  of  the  sweeping  blast ; 
For  the  axe  might  never  touch  that  tree, 
And  the  air  was  still  as  a  summer  sea. 

I  saw  it  fall,  as  falls  a  chief 

By  an  arrow  in  the  fight, 
And  the  old  woods  shook  to  their  loftiest  leaf. 

At  the  crashing  of  its  mi«ht! 
And  the  startled  deer  to  their  coverts  drew, 
And  the  spray  of  the  lake  as  a  fountain's  flew  I 

Tie  fall'n  !  but  think  thou  not  I  weep 

For  the  forest's  pride  o'erlhrown ; 
An  old  man's  tears  lie  far  too  deep. 

To  be  pour'd  for  this  alone  t 
But  by  that  sign  too  well  I  know, 
That  a  youthful  head  must  soon  be  low  I 

A  youthful  head,  with  its  shining  hair. 

And  its  bright,  quick-flashing  eye — 
Well  may  I  weep !  for  the  boy  in  fair. 

Too  fair  a  thing  to  die  I 
But  on  his  brow  the  mark  is  set — 
Oh  !  could  my  life  redeem  him  yet ! 

He  bounded  by  me  as  I  gazed 

Alone  on  the  fatal  sign, 
And  it  seem'd  like  sunshine  when  he  raised 

His  joyous  glance  to  mine  I 
With  a  stag's  fleet  step  he  bounded  by. 
So  full  of  life— but  he  must  die  I 

lie  must,  he  must !  in  that  deep  dell, 

By  that  dark  water's  side, 
*T  is  known  that  ne'er  a  proud  tree  fell, 

But  an  heir  of  his  fathers  died. 
And  he-there  's  laughter  in  his  eye, 
Joy  in  his  voice — yet  he  must  diet 

I've  borne  him  in  these  arms,  that  now 

Are  nerveless  and  unstrung ; 
And  must  I  see  on  that  fair  brow, 

The  dust  untimely  flung  ? 
I  must! — yon  green  oak,  branch  and  crest. 
Lies  floating  on  the  dark  lake's  breast  I 

The  noble  boy  ! — how  proudly  sprung 

The  falcon  from  his  hand  ! 
It  seem'd  like  youth  to  see  Am  young, 

A  flower  in  his  father's  land  ! 
But  the  hour  of  the  knell  and  the  dirge  is  nigh, 
For  the  tree  hath  fall'n,  and  the  flower  must  die 

Say  not  'tis  vain  !— I  tell  thee,  some 

Are  warn'd  by  a  meteor's  light, 
Or  a  pale  bird,  flitting,  calls  them  home, 

Or  a  voice  on  the  winds  by  night ; 
And  they  must  go ! — and  he  too,  he — 
Woe  for  the  fall  of  the  glorious  ftwtl 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN. 


It  U  a  popular  belief  in  the  Odenwald.  that  the  pan- 
i«g  of  the  Wild  Huntsman  announces  the  approach  of 
war.  He  is  supposed  to  issue  with  hi*  train  from  the 
ruined  castle  of  Uodenstein,  and  traverse  the  air  to  the 
opposite  castle  of  Snlinellcrls.  It  is  confidently  asserted 
that  the  sound  of  his  phantom  horses  and  hounds  was 
heard  by  the  Duke  of  Buden  before  the  commencement 
of  the  last  war  in  Germany. 

THY  rest  was  deep  at  the  slmnberer's  hour, 
•  If  thou  didst  not  hear  the  blast 
Of  the  savage  horn,  from  the  mountain  tower, 

An  the  Wild  Night-Huntsman  pass'd, 
And  the  roar  of  the  stormy  chase  went  by. 
Through  the  dark  unquiet  sky  I 

Tim  stag  sprung  up  from  his  mossy  bed 
When  he  caught  the  piercing  sounds. 

And  the  oak-boughs  crush'd  to  his  antler'd  head, 
As  he  flew  from  the  viewless  hounds; 

And  the  falcon  soar'd  from  her  craggy  height, 
Away  through  the  rushing  night  1 

The  banner  shook  on  its  ancient  hold. 

And  the  pine  in  its  desert  place, 
Ax  the  cloud  and  tempest  onward  roll'd 

With  the  din  of  the  trampling  race ; 
And  the  glens  were  lillM  with  the  laugh  and  shout 

And  the  bugle,  ringing  out' 

Prom  the  chieftain's  hand  the  wine-cup  fell. 

At  the  castle's  festive  board. 
And  a  sudden  pause  came  o'er  the  swell 

Of  the  harp's  triumphant  chord; 
And  the  Minnesinger's*  thrilling  lay 

In  the  hall  died  fast  away. 

The  convent's  chanted  rite  was  stay'd, 

And  the  hermit  dropp'd  his  bends, 
And  a  trembling  ran  through  the  forest-shade, 

At  the  neigh  of  phantom  steeds, 
And  the  church-bulls  peal'd  to  the  rocking  blast 

As  the  Wild  Night-Huntsman  pass'd. 

The  storm  hath  swept  with  the  chase  away, 

There  is  stillness  in  the  sky, 
But  the  root  her  looks  on  her  son  to-day, 

With  a  troubled  heart  and  eye, 
And  the  maiden's  brow  rmth  a  shade  of  care 

'Midst  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair; 

The  Rhine  flows  bright,  but  its  waves  ere  long 

Must  hear  a  voir.e  of  war, 
And  a  clash  of  spears  our  hills  among. 

And  a  trumpet  from  afar: 
And  the  brave  on  a  bloody  turf  must  lie, 

For  the  Huntsman  hath  gone  by  1 


BRANDENBURGH  HARVEST-SONG.! 

From  the  German  of  La  Motto  Fouque. 

THE  corn,  in  golden  light, 

Waves  o'er  the  plain ; 
The  sirkle's  gleam  is  bright; 

Full  swells  the  grain. 

Now  send  we  far  around 

Our  harvest  lay  !— 
Alas !  a  heavier  sound 

Comes  o'er  the  day ! 

Earth  shrouds  with  burial  tod 

Her  soft  eye's  blue, — 
Now  o'er  the  gifts  of  Ood 

Fall  tears  like  dew! 


t  For  the  year  of  the  Queen  of  Pruuia1!  death. 


On  every  breeze  a  knell 
The  hamlets  pour, — 

We  know  rts  cause  too    'oil, 
She  is  no  morel 


THE   SHADE   OF  VHESEU& 

ANCIENT  GREEK  TRADITION. 

KNOW  ye  not  when  our  dead 

From  sleep  to  battle  sprung? — 
When  the  Persian  charger's  tread 

On  their  covering  greensward  rung! 
When  the  trampling  march  of  foea 

Had  crush'd  our  vines  and  ll.nvers, 
When  jewell'd  crests  arose 

Through  the  holy  laurel  bow«rs, 

When  banners  caught  tlw  brec»», 
When  helms  in  sunligLt  shop«.<. 

When  masts  were  on  thf  seas 
And  spears  on  Marath  HI. 

There  was  one,  a  leader  crovn'd. 

And  arm'd  for  Greece  that  day 
But  the  falchions  made  no  sound 

On  his  gleaming  war-array. 
In  the  battle's  front  ho  stood. 

With  his  tall  and  shadowy  crest; 
But  the  arrows  drew  no  blood 

Though  their  path  was  through  his  br»a**v 

When  banners  caught  the  breeze. 
When  helms  in  sur  light  shone, 

When  masts  were  on  Hie  seas. 
And  spears  on  Maiathon. 

His  sword  was  seen  to  flush 
Where  the  boldest  dec.ls  were  done  ; 

But  it  smote  without  a  clash  ; 
The  stroke  was  heard  by  none  t 

His  voice  was  not  of  those 

That  swell'd  the  rolling  blast. 
And  his  step?  fell  hush'd  like  snows — 

'Twas  the  Shade  of  Theseus  pass'd  1 

When  banners  caught  the  breeze, 
When  helms  in  sunlight  shone, 

When  masts  were  on  the  seas. 
And  spears  on  Marathon. 

Far  sweeping  through  the  foe, 

With  a  fiery  charge  he  bore; 
And  the  Mede  letl  many  a  bow 

On  the  sounding  ocean-shore. 
And  the  foaming  waves  grew  red, 

And  the  sails  were  crowded  fast. 
When  the  sons  of  Asia  fled, 

As  the  Shade  of  Theseus  pass'd  I 

When  banners  caught  the  breeze. 
When  helms  in  sunlight  shone, 

When  masts  were  on  the  seas. 
And  spears  on  Marathon. 


ANCIENT  GREEK  SONG  OF  EXILE. 

WHERE  is  the  summer,  with  her  golden  mm  T — 
That  festal  glory  hath  not  pass'd  from  earth: 

For  me  alone  the  laughing  day  is  done  I 
Where  is  the  summer  with  her  voice  of  mirth? 
— Far  in  my  own  bright  land) 

Where  are  the  Fauni,  whose  flute-notes  breath* 

and  die 
On  the  green  hills?— the  founts,  from  sparry 

caves 

Through  the  wild  places  bearing  melody? 
The  reeds,  low  whispering  o'er  the  river  wave*  1 
—Far  in  my  own  bright  land  I 


204 


ITKMAX.S*  POKTTCAL  WORKS. 


Where   are  the   temples,  through  the  dim  wood 

sliming, 

The  virgin-dames,  and  tilt:  choral  strains? 
Where  the  sweet  sisters  of  iiiv  youth,  entwinAg 
The  spring's  lirst  roses  for  their  sylvan  fanes? 
— Far  in  my  own  bright  land' 

Where  are  the  vineyards,  with  their  joyous  throngs. 
The  red  grapes  pr.'ssin.';  \vli.-n  the  foliage  fades? 

The  lyr."S.  the  wreaths,  th-  lovely  Dorian  soups, 

And  tho  pine  forests,  a:id  I  he  olive  shades? 

—  Far  in  my  own  bright  land  ! 

Where  the  deep  haunted  arms,  the  laurel  bowels, 
The    Dryad's     footsteps,     and     the     minstrel's 

dreams  ?  — 

Oh!  that  my  life  were  as  a  southern  flower's! 
1  might  not  languish  then  l>y  these  chill  streams, 
Far  from  my  own  bright  land  1 


GREEK  FUNERAL  CHANT  OR 
MYR1OLOGUE. 


"  Les  Chants  Funebres  par  Icaquelg  on  deplore  en 
Grece  la  raort  dc  ses  prochcs,  prennent  le  nom  particu- 
lier  de  Myrii'lngia,  commc  qui  dirnit,  Discoure  de  lamen- 
tation, complaintea.  Un  malade  vient-il  de  rendre  le 
derniei  soupir,  sa  femme,  sa  mere,  ses  lilies,  aes  sceurs, 
celles,  en  un  mot,  de  ses  plus  proclieg  parenles  qui  son: 
in,  lui  ferment  les  yeux  et  la  bouchc,  en  epanchant  libro- 
ment,  chacune  selon  eon  nature!  et  s;i  mesure  de  ten- 
drease  pour  le  defunt,  la  douleur  qu'elle  ressent  de  sa 
perie.  Ce  premier  devoir  rempli,  elleg  se  retirent  tnutes 
chez  nne  de  leura  parentes  ou  de  leurg  amiea.  La  ene« 
changent  de  velemens,  a'dnbillent  de  blanc,  comma  pour 
la  ceremonie  nupliale,  avee  cetle  difference,  ciu'elln 
(ardent  la  tetenue,  les  cheveux  epars  el  pendants.  Ceg 
•ppreta  termines,  Irs  parentes  reviennen'  dans  leur  parure 
Ai  i*»uil;  Unites  se  raneent  en  rirr.lc  nntonr  do  mort,  et 
leur  douleur  s'exhale  de  nouveau.  et,  cumnic  la  pre- 
miere fois,  sans  regie  et  sang  contrainte.  A  ces  plainte* 
•pontanees  succedent  bientot  deg  lamentations  d'une 
autreegpece:  ce  soul  les  Muriologves.  Ordinairement 
c'est  la  plus  procbe  pareme  qui  prononce  le  gien  la  pre- 
miere; aprcs  elle  leg  aulrcs  parenteg.  lea  amies,  lea 
simples  voisines.  Les  Myriologueg  gont  toujours  com- 
poses et  chanlea  par  ]ei  femmes.  Us  sont  toujourg  im- 
provises, toujours  en  vera,  et  toujours  chantegsur  un  air 
qui  diftere  d'un  lieu  a  un  autre.  niais  qui,  dans  un  lieu 
donne,  regie  invariablemem  consacre  a  ce  genre  de 

poesie." Chants  Populaircs  de  la  Grece  Moderne, 

yar  C.  Fauriel. 

A  WAIL  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  death-bed 

of  the  young, 
Amidst  her  tears  the  Funeral  Chant  a  mournful 

mother  sung. — 
•lanthis!  dost  thou  sleep? — Thou  sleep's!! — but 

this  is  not  the  rest, 
The  breathing  and  the  rosy  calm,  I  have  pillow'd 

on  my  breast ! 
I  lull'd  thee  not  to  this  repose,  lanthis!  my  sweet 

son  ! 
As  in  thy  glowing  childhood's  time  by  twilight  I 

have  done ! — 
How  is  it  that  I  bear  to  stand  and  look  upon  thee 

now  ? 

And  that  I  die  not,  seeing  death  on  thy  pale  glo- 
rious brow  1 

"  I  look  upon  thee,  thou  that  wert  of  all  most  fair 

and  brave ! 
I  see  thee  wearing  still  too  much  of  beauty  for  the 

grave ! 
Though  mournfully  thy  smile  is  fix'd,  and  heavily 

thine  eye 
Hath  shut  above  the  falcon-glance  that  in  it  loved 

to  lie  ; 
And  fast  is  bound  the  springing  step,  that  seem'd 

on  breezes  borne, 
When   to   thy  couch   I  came  and  said,—1  Wake, 

hunter,  wake  !  'tis  morn  !' 


Yet  art  thou  lovely  still,  my  flower  I  untouch'd  bj 

slow  decay, — 
And  I.  the  wither'd  stem,  remain — I  would  that 

grief  might  slay! 

"  Oh!  ever  wlmn  I  met  thy  look,  1  knew  that  tAu 

would  be ! 
I  knew   too  well  that  length  of  days  was  not  a 

gift  for  time! 
1  saw  it  in  thv  kindling  chuck,  and  in  thy  bearing 

high  .— 
A  voice  came  whispering  to  my  soul,  and  told  me 

thou  must  die ! 
That  thou  m  ist  die.  my  fearless  one  !  where  swordj 

were  flashing  red. — 
Why  doth  a  mother  live  to  say— My  first-born  and 

my  dead  ? 
They  tell  me  of  thy  youthful  fame,  they  talk  of 

victory  won  — 
Speak   I /tun,  and  I  will  hear!  my  child,  Ian  this! 

my  sweet  son !" 

A  wail  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  death-bed 

of  the  young, 
A  fair-hair'd  bride  the  Funeral  Chant  amidst  her 

weeping  sung. — 

"  [anlhis!  look's!  thou  not  on  me? — Can  love-  in- 
deed be  fled? 
When  was  it  woe  before  to  gaze  upon  thy  stately 

head  ? 
1  would  that  I  had  follow'd  thee,  lanthis,  my  be- 

loved  ! 
And  stood  as  woman  oft  hath  stood  where  faith 

ful  hearts  are  proved  ! 
Thai  I  hail  bound  a  breastplate  on,  and  battled  at 

thy  side — 
|  It  would  have  been  a  blessed  thing  together  had 

we  died ! 

"But  where  was  I  when  thou  didst  fall  beneath 

the  fatal  sword  ? 
Was  I  beside  the  sparkling  fount,  or  at  the  peace 

ful  board? 
Or  singing  some  sweet  song  of  old,  in  the  shadow 

of  the  vine, 
Or  praying  to  the  saints  for  thee,  before  the  holy 

shrine  ? 
And  thou  wert  lying  low  the  while,  the  life-drops 

from  thy  heart 
•  Fast  gushing  like  a  mountain-spring!—  and  couldfcl 

thou  thus  depart  ? 
Couldst  thou  depart,  nor  on  my  lips  pour  out  thy 

fleeting  breath  ? — 
Oh!  I  was  with  thee  but  in  joy,  that  should  have 

been  in  death ! 

"Yes!  I  was  with  thee  when  the  dance  through 

mazy  rings  was  led. 
And  when  the   lyre  and  voice  were  tuned,  and 

when  the  feast  was  spread  ! 
But   not  where    noble   blood   now'd   forth,  where 

sounding  javelins  flew — 
Why  did  1  hear  love's  first  sweet  words,  and  not 

its  last  adieu  ? 
What  now  can   breathe  of  gladness  more,  what 

scene,  what  hour,  what  tone  ? 
The  blue  skies  fade  with  all  their  tights,  they  fade, 

since  thou  art  gone  ! 
Ev'n  that  must  leave  me,  that  still  face,  by  all  my 

tears  unmoved — 
Take  me  from  this  dark  world  with  thee,  .anthiet 

my  beloved!" 

A  wail  was  heard  around  the  bed,  the  death-bed 

of  the  young, 
Amidst  her  tears  the  Funeral  Chant  a  mournful 

sister  sung. 
"  lanthis !  brother  of  my  soul ! — oh !  where  are  now 

the  days 
That  laugh'd  among  the  deep  green  hills,  on  all 

our  infant  plays? 
When  we  two  sported  by  the  streams,  or  track'd 

them  to  their  source, 
And  like  a  stag's,  the  rocks  along,  was  thy  fleet 

fearless  course ! — 


IIKMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


205 


Lull  but  the  mighty  Serpent  King,* 
'Midst  the  gray  rock?,  his  old  domain  ; 

Ward  but  the  cougar's  deadly  spring,— 
Thy  step  that  lake's  green  shores  may  gain; 

And  the  bright  Isle,  when  all  is  pass'd, 

Shall  vainly  meet  thine  eye  at  last! 

Yes!  there,  with  all  its  rainbow  streams 

Clear  as  within  thine  arrow's  (light. 
The  Isle  of  Fornts.  the  Isle  of  dreams. 

Flouts  of,  the  wave  in  golden  light; 
And  lovely  will  the  shadows  be 
Of  groves  whose  fruit  is  not  for  thect 

And  breathings  from  their  sunny  flowers, 
Which  are  not  of  the  things  that  die. 

And  singing  voices  from  their  bowers, 
Shall  greet  thee  in  the  purple  sky; 

•  poft  voices,  e'en  like  those  that  dwell 
Far  in  the  green  reed's  hollow  cell. 

Or  hast  thou  heard  the  sounds  that  rise 

From  the  deep  chambers  of  the  earth  1 
The  wild  and  wondrous  melodies 

To  which  the  ancient  rocks  gave  birth  1] 
Like  that  sweet  song  of  hidden  caves 
Shall  swell  those  wood-notes  o'er  the  waves. 

The  emerald  waves!— they  take  their  hue 

And  image  from  (hat  suubright  shore; 
But  wouldsl  thou  launch  thy  light  canoe. 

And  wouldst  thou  ply  thy  rapid  oar, 
Before  thee,  hadst  thou  morning's  speed, 
The  dreamy  land  should  still  recede! 

Yet  on  the  breeze  thou  still  wonldst  hear 

The  music  of  its  flowering  shades, 
And  ever  should  the  sound  be  near 

Of  (bunts  that  ripple  through  its  glades; 
The  sound,  and  sight,  and  Hashing  ray 
Of  joyous  waters  in  their  play! 

But  wo  for  him  who  sees  them  burst 

With  their  bright  spray-showers  to  the  lake 
Earth  has  no  spring  to  quench  the  thirst 
That  semblance  in  his  soul  shall  wake, 
For  ever  pouring  through  his  dreams, 
The  gush  of  those  untasled  streams! 

Bright,  bright  in  many  a  rocky  urn, 

The  waters  of  our  deserts  lie. 
Yet  at  their  source  his  lip  shall  burn, 

Parch'd  with  the  fever's  agony  ! 
From  the  blue  mountains  to  the  main, 
Our  thousand  floods  may  roll  in  vain. 

E'en  thus  our  hunters  came  of  yore 

Back  from  their  long  and  weary  quest;— 
Had  they  not  seen  th'  untrodden  shore, 

And  could  they  'midst  our  wilds  find  rest  J 
The  lightning  of  their  glance  was  fled, 
They  dwelt  amongst  us  as  the  dead  1 

They  lay  beside  our  glittering  rills, 

With  visions  in  their  darken'd  eye. 
Their  joy  was  not  amidst  the  hills, 
Where  elk  and  deer  before  us  fly ; 
Their  spears  upon  the  cedar  hung, 
Their  javelins  to  the  wind  were  flung. 

They  bent  no  more  the  forest-bow. 

They  arin'd  not  with  the  warrior-band, 
The  moons  waned  o'er  them  dim  and  slow— 

They  left  us  for  the  spirits'  land ! 
Beneath  our  pities  yon  greensward  heap 
Shows  where  the  restless  found  their  sleep. 

•  The  Cherokees  believe  that  Ihe  recesses  of  their  mountains, 
•verirrown  with  lofiy  pines  and  cedars,  and  covered  with  old  mossy 
rocks,  are  inhabited  by  the  kings  or  cliicfs  of  the  rattle-snakes,  whom 
they  denominate  the  "  bright  old  inhabitants."    They  represent  them 
as  snakes  of  an  enormous  size,  and  which  possess  the  power  of 
drawing  to  them  every  living  creature  that  comes  within  ii>»  PM** 
of  their  eyes.     Their  heads  are  said  to  be  crowned  vv 

of  dazzling  brightness.— Sit  Nota  to  Lrydeii'i  "  Seen. 

tThe  stones  on  the  banks  of  the  Oronoco.  called  by  the  South 
American  miss'onaries  Laxat  di  Miaica,  and  alluded  to  in  a  former 


rbuncle 


Son  of  the  stranger!  if  at  eve 

Silence  be  'midst  us  in  thy  place, 
Yet  go  not  where  the  mighty  leave 

The  strength  of  battle  anil  of  chase  ! 
Let  no  vain  dreams  thy  heart  beguile, 
Oh!  seek  thou  not  the  Fountain  Islet 


HE  NEVER  SMILED  AGAIN 


It  is  recorded  of  Henry  the  First,  that  after  the  donU 

i)l' Ins  son.  Prince  William,  who  perished  in  a  shipwreck 
nil"  the  coast  m'  Normandy,  ho  was  never  seen  to  smile. 


THE  bark  that,  held  a  prince  went  down, 

Tho  sweeping  waves  roll'il  on  ; 
And  what  was  England's  glorious  crown 

To  him  that  wept  a  son  1 
He  lived — for  life  may  long  lie  borne 

Ere  sorrow  break  its  chain  ; — 
Why  comes  not  death  to  those  who  mourn  1- 

He  never  smiled  again  1 

There  stood  proud  forms  around  his  throne, 
The  stately  and  the  brave, 

But  which  could  fill  the  place  of  one, 
That  one  beneath  the  wave  1 

Hefore  him  pass'd  the  young  and  fair, 
In  pleasure's  reckless  train. 

But  seas  dash'd  o'er  his  son's  bright  hair- 
He  never  smiled  again' 

He  sat  where  festal  bowls  went  round; 

He  heard  the  minstrel  sing, 
He  saw  the  tourney's  victor  crown 'd. 

Amidst  the  knightly  ring: 
A  murmur  of  the  restless  deep 

Was  blent  with  every  strain, 
\  voice  of  winds  that  would  not  sleep — 

He  never  smiled  again ! 

Hearts,  in  that  time,  closed  o'er  the  trao 

Of  vows  once  fondly  pour'd, 
And  strangers  took  the  kinsman's  place 

At  many  a  joyous  board ; 
Graves,  which  true  love  had  bathed  witi 

Were  left  to  Heaven's  bright  rain, 
Fresh  hopes  were  born  for  other  years — 

He  never  smiled  again  ! 


CXEUR  DE  LION  AT  THE  BlEi 
FATHER. 


<>r  HIS 


The  body  of  Henry  the  Second  lay  in  it*>  t»  the  ab- 
bey church  of  Fontevraud,  where  it  was  vi*-'-.-d  l/y  Rich- 
ard Coeur  de  Lion,  who  on  beholding  it.  wa«  struck 
with  horror  and  remorse,  and  bitterly  repi  xiched  him 
self  for  that  rebellious  conduct  which  '  *d  been  UM 
means  of  bringing  bis  father  to  an  unlimolf  (rave. 


TORCHES  were  blazing  clear, 

Hymns  pealing  deep  and  slow. 
Where  a  king  lay  stately  on  his  biei. 

In  the  church  of  Fontevraud. 
Banners  of  battle  o'er  him  hung, 

And  warriors  slept  beneath. 
And  light,  as  Noon's  broad  light,  was  flung 

On  the  settled  face  of  death. 

On  the  settled  face  of  death 

A  strong  and  ruddy  glare, 
Though  dimm'd  at  times  by  the  center's  breath, 

Yet  it  fell  still  brightest  ther*: 
As  if  each  deepiy-furrow'd  trace 

Of  earthly  years  to  show, — 
Alas !  that  sceptred  mortal's  race 

Had  surely  closed  in  woe  I 

The  marble  floor  was  swept 
By  many  a  long  dark  stole, 
As  the  kneeling  priests  round  him  that  slept, 
Sang  mass  for  the  parted  soul ; 


166 


J1EMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  tears  at  last  all  melted ;  and  she  felt 
On  the  glad  bosom  of  her  rliilit,  mid  cried, 
"  Return,  return,  my  son  !"— The  echo  caught 
A  lovelier  sou  ml  than  itong,  and  woke  again. 
Murmuring — "  Return,  my  son  I" 


THF  SULIOTE  MOTHER. 

It  is  related,  in  a  French  Life  of  Ali  Paclin,  that  sev- 
eral of  the  Sulmte  women,  on  the  advance  of  the  Turk- 
ish troops  into  their  mountain  fastnesses,  assembled  on  a 
lofty  summit,  and  after  chanting  a  wild  sung,  preci- 
pitated themselves,  with  their  children,  into  the  chasm 
below,  to  avoid  becoming  the  slaves  of  the  enemy. 

SHE  stood  upon  the  loftiest  peak. 

Amidst  the  clear  blue  sky, 
A  bitter  smile  was  on  her  cheek, 

And  a  dark  flash  in  her  eye. 

"  Dost  thou  see  them,  boy  ?  —  through  the  dusky 

pines 

Dost  thou  see  where  the  foeman'a  armour  shines? 
Hast  thou  caught  the  gleam  of  the  conqueror's 

crest  ? 

My  babe,  that  I  cradled  on  my  breast  1 
Wouldst  thou  spring  from  thy  mother's  arm*  with 

joy? 
—That  sight  hath  cost  thee  a  father,  my  boy  1" 

For  in  the  rocky  strait  beneath 

Lay  Suliote  sire  and  son  ; 
They  had  heap'd  high  the  piles  of  death 

Before  the  pass  was  won. 

44  They  have  cross'd  the  torrent,  and  on  they  come  I 
Woe  for  the  mountain  hearth  and  home  I 
There,  where  the  hunter  laid  by  his  spear, 
There,  where  the  lyre  hath  been  sweet  to  hear, 
There,  where  I  sang  thee,  fair  babe  !  to  sleep, 
taught  but  the  blood-stain  our  trace  shall  keep  I" 

And  now  the  horn's  loud  blast  was  heard. 

And  now  the  cymbal's  clang, 
Till  ev'n  the  upper  air  was  stirr'd, 

As  cliff  and  hollow  rang. 

'  Hark  !  they  bring  music,  my  joyous  child ! 
What  saith  the  trumpet  to  Suit's  wild) 
Doth  it  light  thine  eye  with  so  quick  a  fire, 
As  if  at  a  glance  of  thine  armed  sire  ? — 
Still! — be  thou  still ! — there  are  brave  men  low — 
Thou  wouldst  nqt  smile  couldst  thou  see  him  now  I" 

But  nearer  came  the  clash  of  steel, 

And  louder  swell'd  the  horn, 
And  farther  yet  the  tambour's  peal 

Through  the  dark  pass  was  borne. 

"  Hear'xt  thou  the  sound  of  their  savage  mirth?— 
Boy  i  thou  wert  free  when  I  gave  thee  birth, — 
Free,  and  how  cherish'd,  my  warrior's  son  I 
He  too  hath  bless'd  thee,  as  I  have  done  I 
Ay,  and  unchain'd  must  his  loved  ones  be — 
Freedom,  young  Suliote !  for  thee  and  me  1" 

And  from  the  arrowy  peak  she  sprung. 
And  fast  the  fair  child  bore  :— 

A  veil  upon  the  wind  was  flung, 
A  cry — and  all  was  o'er  I 


THE  FAREWELL  TO  THE  DEAR 


The  following  piece  is  founded  on  a  beautiful  part 
of  the  Greek  funeral  service,  in  which  relatives  and 
friends  are  invited  to  embrace  the  deceased  (whose  face 

is  uncovered)  and  to  bid  their  final  adieu. See  Ckrit- 

tian  Researches  in  the  Mediterranean. 

T  is  hard  to  lay  into  the  earth 

A  countenance  w  benign  !  a  form  that  walkM 
But  yesterday  to  stately  o'er  the  earth  ! 


COME  near ! — ere  yet  the  dust 
Soil  the  bright  paleness  of  the  settled  brow. 
Look  on  your  I  »oihrr.  and  embrace  him  njw, 

In  still  and  solemn  trust ! 

Come  near! — once  more  let  kindred  lips  be  press  1 
On  his  cold  cheek  ;  then  bear  him  to  his  rest  1 

Look  yet  on  this  young  face ! 
What  shall  the  beauty,  from  amongst  us  gone. 
Leave  of  its  image,  ev'n  whore  most  it  shone, 

Gladdening  its  hearth  and  race  ? 
Dim  grows  the  semblance  on  man's  heart  In 

press'd — 
Come  near,  and  bear  the  beautiful  to  rest  I 

Ye  weep,  and  it  Is  well ! 
For  tears  befit  earth's  partings!— Yesterday, 
Song  was  upon  the  lips  of  this  pale  clay. 

And  sunshine  scem'd  to  dwell 
Where'er  he  moved — the  welcome  and  the  bless'd!  — 
Now  gaze  !  and  bear  the  silent  unto  rest  1 

Ijook  yet  on  him,  whose  eye 
Meets  yours  no  more,  in  sadness  or  in  mirth  I 
Was  he  not  fair  amidst  the  sons  of  earth, 

The  beings  born  to  die  ? — 
But  not  where  death  has  power  may  love   b« 

bless'd — 
Come  near!  and  bear  ye  the  beloved  to  rest  I 

How  may  the  mother's  heart 
Dwell  on  her  son,  and  dare  to  hope  again  7 
The  spring's  rich  promise  hath  been  given  in  vain, 

The  lovely  must  depart ! 
Is  he  not  gone,  our  brightest  and  our  best  ? 
Come  near !  and  bear  the  early -call'd  to  rest  I 

Look  on  him  !  is  he  laid 
To  slumber  from  the  harvest  or  the  chase?— 
Too  still  and  sad  the  smile  upon  his  face, 

Yet  that,  ev'n  that,  must  fade  I 
Death  holds  not  long  unchanged  his  fairest  guett,— 
Come  near !  and  bear  the  mortal  to  his  rest  I 

His  voice  of  mirth  hath  ceased 
Amidst  the  vineyards  !  there  is  left  no  place 
For  him  whose  dust  receives  your  vain  embrace. 

At  the  gay  bridal  ftja'st '. 

Earth  must  take  earth  to  moulder  on  her  breast ; 
Come  near  I  weep  o'er  him !  bear  him  to  his  rest ' 

Yet  mourn  ye  not  as  they 

Whose  spirit's  light  is  quench'd! — for  him  the  pail 
Is  seal'd.     He  may  not  fall,  he  may  not  cust 

His  birthright's  hope  away  1 
All  is  not  here  of  our  beloved  and  bleas'd— 
Leave  ve  UM  sleeper  with  his  God  to  re*  i 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


THE  BRIDAL  DAY. 


On  a  monument  in  a  Venetian  church  ii  an  epitaph, 
•  ecording  that  the  remains  beneath  are  those  of  a  noble 
My,  who  expired  suddenly  while  standing  M  a  bride  at 
UM>  altar.  

We  bear  her  borne !  we  bear  her  horn*  1 
Over  (he  murmuring  nit  sea'i  foam  ; 
One  who  has  fled  from  the  wai  of  life, 
From  wrrow,  pain,  and  the  fever  strife. 

Barry  Cornwall 

BRIDE!  upon  thy  marriage-day, 
When  thy  penis  in  rich  array 
Made  the  glistening  mirror  seem 
As  a  star-reflecting  stream; 
When  the  clustering  pearls  lay  fair 
'Midst  thy  braids  of  sunny  hair. 
And  the  white  veil  o'er  thee  streaming, 
Like  a  silvery  halo  gleaming, 
Mcllow'd  all  that  pomp  and  light 
Into  something  meekly  bright ; 
Did  the  fluttering  of  thy  breath 
Speak  of  joy  or  woe  beneath? 
And  the  hue  that  went  and  came 
O'er  thy  cheek,  like  wavering  flame, 
Flow'd  that  crimson  from  th'  unrest, 
Or  the  gladness  of  thy  breast? 
—Who  shall  tell  us?— from  thy  bower, 
Brightly  didst  thou  pass  that  hour; 
With  the  many-glancing  oar, 
And  the  cheer  along  the  shore. 
And  the  wealth  of  summer  flower* 
On  thy  fair  head  cast  in  showers. 
And  the  breath  of  song  and  flute, 
And  the  clarion's  glad  salute, 
Swiftly  o'er  the  Adrian  tide 
Wert  thou  borne  in  pomp,  young  bride  I 
Mirth  and  music,  sun  and  sky, 
Welcomed  thee  triumphantly! 
Yet,  perchance,  a  chastening  thought, 
In  some  deeper  spirit  wrought, 
Whispering,  as  untold  it  blent 
With  the  sounds  of  merriment, — 
'•  From  the  home  of  childhood's  glee. 
From  the  days  of  laughter  free. 
Prom  the  love  of  many  years, 
Thou  art  gone  to  cares  and  fears; 
To  another  path  and  guide, 
To  a  bosom  yet  untried  I 
Bright  one !  oh !  there  well  may  be 
Trembling  'midst  our  joy  for  thee." 

Bride !  when  through  the  stately  fane, 
Circled  with  thy  nuptial  train, 
'Midst  the  banners  hung  on  high 
By  thy  warrior-ancestry, 
'Midst  those  mighty  fathers  dead, 
In  soft  beauty  thou  wast  led; 
When  before  the  shrine  thy  form 
Quiver'd  to  some  bosom  storm. 


When,  like  harp-strings  with  a  sigh 

Breaking  in  mid-harmony. 

On  thy  lip  the  murmurs  low 

Died  with  love's  iiiifinisli'd  vow; 

When,  like  scntter'd  rose  leaves,  fled 

From  thy  cheek  each  tint  of  red, 

And  the  lizht  forsook  thine  eye, 

And  thy  head  sank  heavily; 

Was  that  drooping  but  th' excess 

Of  thy  spirit's  blessedness? 

Or  did  some  deep  feeling's  might. 

Folded  in  thy  heart  from  sight, 

With  a  sudden  tempest-shower, 

Earthward  hear  thy  life's  young  flower f 

—Who  shall  tell  us  ?—  on  thy  tongue 

Silence,  and  for  ever,  hung ! 

Never  to  thy  lip  and  cheek 

Rush'd  again  the  crimson  streak. 

Never  to  thine  eye  retiirn'd 

That  which  there  had  beam'd  and  buru'd  I 

With  the  secret  none  might  know, 

With  thy  rapture  or  thy  woe, 

With  thy  marriage-robe  and  wreath, 

Thou  wert  fled,  young  bride  of  death  I 

One,  one  lightning  moment  there 

Struck  down  triumph  to  despair, 

Beauty,  splendour,  hope,  and  trust, 

Into  darkness— terror— dust  1 

There  were  sounds  of  weeping  o'er  thee, 

Bride  !  as  forth  thy  kindred  bore  thee, 

Shrouded  in  thy  gleaming  veil, 

Deaf  to  that  wild  funeral  wail. 

Yet  perchance  a  chastening  thought. 

In  some  deeper  spirit  wrought. 

Whispering,  while  the  stem  sad  knell 

On  the  air's  bright  stillness  fell , 

— "  From  the  power  of  chill  and  change 

Souls  to  sever  and  estrange ; 

From  love's  wane — a  death  in  life 

But  to  watch— a  mortal  strife 

From  the  secret  fevers  known 

To  the  burning  heart  alone, 

Thou  art  fled— afar,  away— 

Where  these  blights  no  more  hare  sway  I 

Bright  one !  oh !  there  well  may  be 

Comfort  'midst  our  tears  for  thee  1" 


THE  ANCESTRAL  SONG. 


A  long  war  dUturta'd  jam  mind- 
Hera  your  perfect  pact  it  sign'd  j 
Tit  DOW  full  tide  twin  eight  iud  day, 
End  your  moan,  ind  cone  away ! 

fVtltter—Duthta  of  Unify 

THERE  were  faint  sounds  of  weeping;-  -few  an4 

gloom 

And  midnight  vigil  in  a  stately  room 
Of  Lusignan's  old  halls:— rich  odours  there 
Fill'd  the  proud  chamber  as  with  Indian  air. 


268 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  soft  lizht  fell,  from  lamps  of  silver  thrown. 
On  jewels  that  with  ruinltmv  lustre  shone 
Over  a  gorgeous  cimch  -.—  there  emeralds  gleam'd, 
And  deeper  crimson  from  the  ruhy  stream'd 
Than  in  the  heart-leaf  of  the  rose  is  set, 
Hiding  from  sunshine.— Many  a  carcanet 
Starry  with  diamonds,  many  a  burning  chain 
Of  the  rod  gold,  sc.nl  forth  a  radiance  vain, 
And  sad,  and  strange,  the  canopy  beneath 
Whose  shadowy  curtains,  round  a  bed  of  death, 
Hung  drooping  solemnly ;— for  there  one  lay, 
Passing  fruin  all  Earth's  glories  fast  away. 
Amidst  those  queenly  treasures:  They  had  been 
Gifts  of  her  lord,  from  far-off  I'aynim  lands. 
And  for  hits  "ake.  upon  their  orient  sheen 
She  had  gazed  fondly,  and  with  faint,  cold  hands 
Had  press'd  them  to  her  languid  heart  once  more, 
Melting  in  childlike  tears.     But  this  was  o'er— 
Love's  last  vain  clinging  unto  life  ;  and  now — 
A  mist  of  dreams  was  hovering  o'er  her  brow, 
Her  eye  was  fix'd,  her  spirit  seem'd  removed. 
Though  not  from  Earth,  from  all  it  knew  or  loved. 
Far,  far  away!  her  handmaids  watch'd  around, 
In  awe,  that  lent  to  each  low  midnight  sound 
A  might,  a  mystery;  and  the  quivering  light 
Of  wind-sway'd  lamps,  made  spectral  in  their  sight 
The  forms  of  buried  beauty,  sad,  yet  fair. 
Gleaming  along  the  walls  with  braided  hair. 
Long  in  the  dust  grown  dim ;  and  she,  too,  saw, 
But  with  the  spirit's  eye  of  raptured  awe, 
Those  pictured  shapes!— a  bright,  yet  solemn  train, 
Beckoning,  they  floated  o'er  her  dreamy  brain, 
Clothed  in  diviner  hues;  while  on  her  ear 
Strange  voices  fell,  which  none  besides  might  hear. 
Sweet,  yet  profoundly  mournful,  as  the  sigh 
Of  winds  o'er  harp-strings  through  a  midnight  sky; 
And  thus  it  seem'd,  in  that  low  thrilling  tone, 
Tli'  ancestral  shadows  call'd  away  their  own. 

Come,  come,  come  1 
Long  thy  fainting  soul  hath  yearn'd 
For  the  step  that  ne'er  return 'd ! 
Long  thine  anxious  ear  hath  listen'd, 
And  thy  watchful  eye  hath  clisten'd 
With  the  hope,  whose  parting  strife 
Shook  the  flower-leaves  from  thy  life— 
Now  the  heavy  day  is  done. 
Home  awaits  thee,  wearied  one  I 

Come,  come,  come  I 

Prom  the  quenchless  thoughts  that  burn 
In  the  seal'd  heart's  lonely  urn ; 
From  the  coil  of  memory's  chain 
Wound  about  the  throbbing  brain ; 
From  the  veins  of  sorrow  deep. 
Winding  through  the  world  of  sleep; 
From  the  haunted  halls  and  bowers, 
Tbrong'd  with  ghosts  of  happier  hours  f 
Come,  come,  come  I 

On  our  dim  and  distant  shore 
Aching  love  is  felt  no  more  I 
We  have  loved  with  earth's  excess- 
Past  is  now  that  weariness ! 
We  have  wept,  that  weep  not  now- 
Calm  is  each  once  beating  brow! 
We  have  known  the  dreamer's  woes- 
All  is  now  one  bright  repose  I 

Come,  come,  come  1 

Weary  heart  that  long  hast  bled. 
Languid  spirit,  diooping  head. 
Restless  memory,  vain  regret. 
Pining  love  whose  light  is  set, 
Come  away !— 'tis  hush'd,  'tis  well! 
Where  by  shadowy  founts  we  dwell. 
All  the  fever-thirst  is  still'd. 
All  the  air  with  peace  is  fill'd,— 
Come,  come,  come  I 

And  with  her  spirit  rapt  in  that  wild  lay, 
She  |aM'd,  as  twilight  melts  to  night,  away] 


THK  MAGIC  GLASS, 


Bow  lived,  bow  loved,  how  died  they? 


ffyn*. 


THE  Dead!  the  glorious  Dead!— And  shall  they 

rise? 

Shall  they  look  on  thee  with  their  proud  brighJ 
eyes  7 

Thou  ask'st  a  fearful  spell  1 
Yet  say,  from  shrine  or  dim  sepulchral  hall, 
What  kingly  vision  shall  obey  my  call  ? 

The  deep  grave  knows  it  well  I 

"Wouldst  thou  behold  earth's  conquerors?  shaU 

they  pass 
Before  thee,  flushing  all  the  Masic  Glass 

With  triumph's  long  array  7 
Speak !  and  those  dwellers  of  the  marble  urn, 
Robed  for  the  feast  of  victory,  shall  return. 

As  on  their  proudest  da). 

"  Or  wouldst  thou  look  upon  the  lords  of  song  ?— 
O'er  the  dark  mirror  that  immortal  throng 

Shall  waft  a  solemn  gleam ! 
Passing,  with  lighted  eyes  and  radiant  brows, 
Under  the  foliage  of  green  laurel-bouzhs, 

But  silent  as  a  dream." 

"  Not  these,  O  mighty  master!— Though  their  lays 
Be  unto  man's  free  heart,  and  tears,  and  praise, 

Hallow'd  for  evermore  I 

And  not  the  buried  conquerors  !  Let  them  sleep 
And  let  the  flowery  earth  her  Sabbaths  keep 

In  joy,  from  shore  to  shore  I 

"  But,  if  the  narrow  house  may  so  be  moved. 
Call  the  bright  shadows  of  the  most  beloved. 

Back  from  their  couch  of  rest 
That  I  may  learn  if  their  meek  eyes  be  fill'd 
With  peace,  if  human  love  hath  ever  still'd 

The  yearning  human  breast." 

'Away,  fond  youth !— An  idle  quest  is  thine ; 
These  have  no  trophy,  no  memorial  shrine ; 

I  know  not  of  their  place ! 
'Midst  the  dim  valleys,  with  a  secret  How, 
Their  lives,  like  shepherd  reed-notes,  faint  and  k.w 

Have  pass'd,  and  left  no  trace, 

"  Haply,  begirt  with  shadowy  woods  and  hills, 
And  the  wild  sounds  of  melancholy  rills. 

Their  covering  turf  may  bloom 
But  ne'er  hath  Fame  made  relics  of  its  flowers,— 
Never  hath  pilgrim  sought  their  household  bowtrs, 

Or  poet  hail'd  their  tomb." 

"Adieu,  then,  master  of  the  midnight  spell ! 
Some  voice,  perchance,  by  those  lone  graves  may 
tell 

That  which  I  pine  to  know  1 
I  haste  to  seek,  from  woods  and  valleys  deep. 
Where  the  beloved  are  laid  in  lowly  sleep. 
Records  of  joy  and  woe." 


CORINNE  AT  THE  CAPITOL, 


Let  trmma  doivent  pemer  qu'il  nt  dan*  cclte  cvrien  b» 
4*  tone  qui  pahKot  nloir  la  p'.ui  otecure  vie  d-une  ttaatf 
«t  d*uoe  mere  beomue. Madame  dt  SlatL 

DADORTER  of  th'  Italian  heaven ! 
Thou,  to  whom  its  fires  are  given. 
Joyously  thy  car  hath  roll'd 
Where  the  conquerors  pass'd  of  old ; 
And  the  festal  sun,  that  shone 
O'er  three  *  hundred  triumphs  gone. 
Makes  thy  day  of  glory  bright. 
With  a  shower  of  golden  light. 
Now  thou  tread'st  th'  ascending  road. 
Freedom's  foot  so  proudly  trode; 
Wnile,  from  tombs  of  heroes  borne. 
From  the  dust  of  empire  shorn, 


•  Tbc  trebly  hundred  Iriumph*.        Byron. 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


269 


Flowers  upon  thy  graceful  head, 

Chaplets  of  all  hues,  are  shed, 

In  a  suit  and  rosy  rain, 

Tonch'd  with  many  a  gem-like  stain. 

Thou  hast  gain'd  the  summit  now  I 
Music  hails  thee  from  below; — 
Music,  whose  rich  notes  might  stir 
Ashes  of  the  .sepulchre  ; 
Shaking  with  victorious  notes 
All  Hie  bright  air  as  it  limits. 
Well  may  woman's  heart  heat  high 
Unto  that  proud  harmony  ! 

Now  afar  it  rolls—  it  dies — 
And  thy  voice  is  heard  to  rise 
With  a  low  and  lovely  tone 
In  its  thrilling  [xivver  alone  ; 
And  thy  lyre's  deep  silvery  string, 
Touch'd  as  by  a  breeze's  wing, 
Murmurs  tremblingly  at  first, 
Ere  the  tide  of  rapture  burst. 

All  the  spirit  of  thy  sky 
Now  hath  lit  thy  large  dark  eye, 
And  thy  cheek  a  flush  hath  caught 
From  the  joy  of  kindled  thought; 
And  the  (turning  wordg  of  gong 
From  thy  lip  flow  fast  and  strong. 
With  a  rushing  stream's  delight 
In  the  freedom  of  its  might. 

Radiant  daughter  of  the  sun! 
Now  thy  living  wreath  is  won. 
Crown'd  of  Koine  !— Oh  !  art  thou  not 
Happy  in  that  glorious  lot  ? — 
Happier,  happier  far  than  thou, 
With  the  laurel  on  thy  hrow, 
She  that  makes  the  humlilest  hearth 
Lovely  hut  to  one  on  earth ! 


THE  RUIN 

Oh  !  1  is  the  heart  that  magnifies  this  life, 
Making  a  truth  and  beauty  of  itt  own. 

H'ordnaarlh. 
Birth  L.J  gladden'd  it :  Death  hai  minified  it 

Outao  at  TVutA. 

Wo  dower  of  storied  song  is  thine, 

O  desolate  abode.  ! 
Forth  from  thy  gates  no  glittering  line 

Of  lanre  and  spear  hath  flow'd. 
Banners  of  knighthood  have  not  flung 

Proud  drapery  o'er  thy  walls, 
Nor  bugle-notes  to  battle  rung 

Through  thy  resounding  halls. 

Nor  have  rich  bowers  of  pleanavnet  here 

By  courtly  hands  been  dress'd, 
For  Princes,  from  the  chase  of  deer, 

Under  green  leaves  to  rest: 
Only  some  rose,  yet  lingering  briglu 

Beside  thy  casement  lone, 
Tells  where  tin;  spirit  of  delight 

Hath  dwelt,  and  now  is  gone. 

Tet  minstrel  tale  of  harp  and  sword. 

And  sovereign  beauty's  lot. 
House  of  qnench'd  light  and  silent  board!, 

For  me  thou  needest  not. 
It  is  enough  to  know  that  here, 

Where  thoughtfully  I  stand. 
Borrow  and  love  and  hope  and  fear. 

Have  link'd  one  kindred  band. 

Thou  bindest  me  with  mighty  fpellsl 

— A  solemnizing  breath, 
A  presence  all  around  thee  dwells, 

Of  human  life  and  death. 
(  need  but  pluck  yon  garden  flower 

From  when-  the  wild  weeds  rise, 
To  wake,  with  stranirn  and  sudden  power, 

A  thousand  syn  palhies. 


Thou  hast  heard  many  sounds,  thou  hearth  I 

Deserted  now  by  all  1 
Voices  at  eve  here  met  in  mirth. 

Which  eve  may  ne'er  recall. 
Youth's  buoyant  step,  and  woman's  tone, 

And  childhood's  laughing  glee, 
And  song  and  prayer,  have  all  been  known. 

Hearth  of  the  dead!  to  thee. 

Thou  hast  heard  blessings  fondly  pour'd 

Upon  the  infant  head, 
As  if  in  every  fervent  word 

The  living  soul  were  shed  ; 
Thou  hast  seen  partings,  such  as  bear 

The  bloom  of  life  away — 
Alas!  for  love  in  changeful  air, 

Where  naught  beloved  can  stay  I 

Here,  by  the  restless  bed  of  pain, 

The  vigil  hath  been  kept, 
Till  sunrise,  bright  with  hope  in  vain, 

Burst  forth  on  eyes  that  wept  : 
Here  hath  been  felt  the  hush,  the  gloom. 

The  breathless  influence,  shed 
Through  the  dim  dwelling,  from  the  room 

Wherein  reposed  the  dead. 

The  seat  left  void,  the  missing  face, 

Have  here  been  mark'd  and  mourn'd. 
And  time  hath  fill'd  the  vacant  place, 

And  gladness  hath  return'd  ; 
Till  from  the  narrowing  household  chain 

The  links  dropp'd  one  by  one  1 
And  homewards  hither,  o'er  the  main, 

Came  the  spring-birds  alone. 

Is  there  not  cause,  then— cause  for  thought, 

Fix'd  eye  and  lingering  tread. 
Where,  with  their  thousand  mysteries  fraugb. 

Ev'n  lowliest  hearts  have  bled  ? 
Where,  in  its  ever-haunting  thirst 

For  draughts  of  purer  day, 
Man's  soul,  with  fitful  strength,  hath  burst 

The  clouds  that  wrapt  its  way? 

Holy  to  human  nature  seems 

Tim  long-forsaken  spot ; 
To  deep  affections,  tender  dreams, 

Hopes  of  a  brighter  lot! 
Therefore  in  silent  reverence  here. 

Hearth  of  the  dead !  I  stand, 
Where  joy  and  sorrow,  smile  and  tear, 

Have  link'd  one  household  band. 


THE   MINSTER, 

A  fit  abode,  wherein  appear  enshrined 
Our  hopes  of  immortality.  Byron, 

SPEAK  low !—  the  place  is  holy  to  the  breath 
Of  awful  harmonies,  of  whispcr'd  prayer; 

Tread  lightly  !— for  the  sanctity  of  death 
Broods  with  a  voiceless  influence  on  the  ait 

Stern,  yet  serene  !— a  reconciling  spell. 

Each  troubled  billow  of  the  soul  to  quell. 

Leave  me  to  linger  silently  awhile! 

—Not  for  the  light  that  pours  its  fervid  stream* 
Of  rainbow  glory  down  through  arch  and  aisle. 

Kindling  old  banners  into  haughty  gleams. 
Flushing  proud  shrines,  or  by  some  warrior's  torafe 
Dying  away  in  clouds  of  gorgeous  gloom : 

Not  for  rich  music,  though  in  triumph  pealing, 
Mighty  as  forest  sounds  when  winds  are  high; 

Nor  yet  for  torch,  and  cross,  and  stole,  revealing 
Through  incense-miststheirsainted  pageantry:— 

Though  o'er  the  spirit  each  hath  charm  and  power, 

Yet  not  for  these  I  ask  one  lingering  hour. 

But  by  strong  sympathies,  whose  silver  cord 
Links  me  to  mortal  weal,  my  soul  is  bound 

Thoughts  of  the  human  hearts,  that  here  hart 

pour'd 
Their  anguish  forth,  are  with  me  and  around;— 

I  look  bock  on  the  pangs,  the  burning  tears. 

Known  to  these  altars  of  a  thousand  years. 


270 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Send  up  a  murmur  from  the  dust,  Remorse! 

That  here  hast  bow'd  with  ashes  on  thy  head ; 
And  thou,  still  battling  with  the  tempest's  force— 

Thou,  whose  bright  spirit  through  all  time  ha* 

bled— 

Speak,  wounded  Love  !  if  penance  here,  or  prayer, 
Hath  laid  one  haunting  shadow  of  despair? 

No  voice,  no  breath  !— of  conflicts  past,  no  trace  1 
—Doth  not  this  hush  give  answer  to  my  quest  7 
Surely  the  dread  religion  of  the  place 

By  every  grief  hath  made  its  might  confestl 
— Oh !  that  within  my  heart  I  could  but  keep 

to  Heaven,  a  spot  thus  pure,  and  still,  and 
deep  I 


THE  SONG  OF  NIGHT. 


O  night, 

And  ftonn,  and  darknas !  ye  ire  woodrow  tJrocg, 
Tel  lovely  in  your  strength  ! 

Syren, 

I  COME  to  thee,  O  Earth ! 

With  all  my  gifts !— for  every  flower  sweet  dew, 
In  bell,  and  urn,  and  chalice,  to  renew 

The  glory  of  its  birth. 

Not  one  which  glimmering  lie* 
Far  amidst  folding  hills,  or  forest  leaves, 
But,  through  its  veins  of  beauty,  so  receive* 

A  spirit  of  fresh  dyes. 

I  come  with  every  star ; 

•faking  thy  streams,  that  on  their  noon-day  track 
Give  but  the  moss,  the  reed,  the  lily  back. 

Mirrors  of  worlds  afar. 

I  come  with  peace  ;— I  shed 
Sleep  through  thy  wood-walks,  o'er  the  honey-bee. 

The  lark'H  triumphant  voice,  the  fawn's  young 

glee, 
The  hyacinth's  meek  head. 

On  my  own  heart  I  lay 
The  weary  babe  ;  ami  waling  with  a  breath 
Its  eyes  of  love,  send  fairy  dreams,  beneath 

The  shallowing  lids  to  play. 

I  come  wild  mightier  things! 
Who  calls  me  silent  ?  I  have  many  tone* — 
The  dark  skies  thrill  with  low,  mysterious  moan* 

Borne  on  my  sweeping  wings. 

I  waft  them  not  alone 
From  the  deep  organ  of  tho  forest  shades, 
Or  buried  streams,  unheard  amidst  their  glades, 

Till  the  bright  day  is  done; 

But  in  the  human  breast 
A  thousand  still  small  voices  I  awake, 
Strong,  in  their  sweetness,  from  the  soul  to  shake 

The  mantle  of  its  rest. 

I  bring  them  from  the  past : 
Prom  true  hearts  broken,  gentle  spirits  torn, 
Prom  crush'd  affections,  which,  though  long  o'er- 
borne, 

Make  their  tones  heard  at  last. 

I  bring  them  from  the  tomb : 
O'er  the  sad  couch  of  late  repentant  love 
They  pass— though  low  as  murmurs  of  a  dove— 

Like  trumpets  through  the  gloom. 

I  come  with  all  my  train 
Who  calls  me  lonely  ?— Hosts  around  me  tread. 
The  intensely  bright,  the  beautiful, — the  dead,— 

Phantoms  of  heart  and  brain  I 

Looks  from  departed  eyes — 
These  are  my  lightnings !— fill'd  with  anguish  vain 
Or  tenderness  too  piercing  to  sustain, 

They  smite  with  agonies. 

I,  that  with  soft  control 
Phut  the  dim  violet,  hush  the  woodland  song, 
1  am  the  avenging  one  !  the  arm'd — the  strong. 

The  searcher  of  the  soul  I 


I,  that  shower  dewy  light 
Through  slumbering  leaves,  bring  storms  I — the 

tempest-birth 
Of  memory,  thought,  remorse:— Be  holy,  earth t 

I  am  the  solemn  night  I 


THE  STORM  PAINTER*  IN  HIS  DUNGEON. 

Where  of  ye,  O  tempesu !  it  the  (oal  ? 
Are  ye  like  those  tint  ituke  the  human  breut? 
Or  do  ye  find  at  length,  like  eaglet,  tome  bigh  not  ? 

CAiUt  Hanld. 

MIDNIGHT,  and  silence  deep  I 

—The  air  is  till'd  with  sleep, 
With  the  stream's  whisper,  and  the  citron's  breath; 

The  ftx'd  and  solemn  stars 

Gleam  through  my  dungeon  bars — 
Wake,  rushing  winds!   this  breezeless  calm  is 
death  I 

Ye  watch-fires  of  the  skies  I 

The  stillness  of  your  eyes 
Looks  too  intensely  through  my  troubled  soul : 

I  feel  this  weight  of  rest 

An  earth-load  on  my  breast — 
Wake,  rushing  winds,  awake  1  and,  dark  clouds 
roll! 

I  am  your  own,  your  child, 

O  ye,  the  fierce  and  wild 
And  kingly  tempesu  I— will  ye  not  arise  7 

Hear  the  bold  spirit's  voice, 

That  knows  not  to  rejoice 
But  in  the  peal  of  your  strong  harmonies. 

By  sounding  ocean-waves, 

And  dim  Calubriun  caves, 
And  flashing  torrents,  I  have  been  your  mate 

And  with  the  rocking  pines 

Of  the  olden  Apennines, 
In  your  dark  path  stood  fearless  and  elate 

Your  lightnings  were  as  rods, 

That  smote  the  dark  abodes 
Of  thought  and  vision— and  the  stream  gush'd  free 

Come,  that  my  soul  again 

May  swell  to  burst  its  chain — 
Bring  me  the  music  of  the  sweeping  sea  I 

Within  mo  dwells  a  flame, 

An  eagle  caged  and  tame, 
Till  call'd  forth  by  the  harping  of  the  blast; 

Then  is  its  triumph's  hour, 

It  springs  to  sudden  power, 
As  mounts  the  billow  o'er  tin:  quivering  mast. 

Then,  then,  the  canvas  o'er, 

With  hurried  hand  1  pour 
The  ,ava-waves  and  gusts  of  my  own  soul  \ 

Kindling  to  fiery  life 

Dreams,  worlds,  of  pictured  strife  ; 
Wake,  rushing  winds,  awake  1  and,  dark  clouds, 
roll  I 

Wake,  rise !  the  reed  may  bend. 

The  shivering  leaf  descend, 
The  forest  branch  give  way  before  your  might; 

But  I,  your  strong  compeer. 

Call,  summon,  wait  you  here, — 
Answer,  my  spirit  1— answer,  storm  and  night 


DEATH  AND  THE  WARRIOR. 


"AT,  Warrior,  arm  !  and  wear  thy  plume 
On  a  proud  and  fearless  brow ! 

I  am  the  lord  of  the  lonely  tomb. 
And  a  mightier  one  than  Dion  ! 


IIEMANS*  POETICAL  WORKS. 


271 


•  Bid  thy  soul's  love  farewell,  young  chief, 

Bid  her  a  long  farewell ! 
Like  the  morning's  dew  shall  p;iss  that  grief— 

Thou  comest  with  me  to  dwell  I 

"Thy  bark  may  rush  through  the  foaming  deep, 

Tliy  slued  o'er  the  breezy  hill ; 
But  they  l>oar  thee  on  to  a  place  ot  sleep, 

Narrow,  and  cold,  and  chill !" 

"  Was  the  voice  I  heard,  thy  voice,  oh  Death  7 

And  is  thy  day  so  noar  ? 
Then  on  the  field  shall  my  life's  last  breath 

Mingle  with  victory's  cheer! 

"  Banners  shall  float,  with  the  trumpet'!  note, 

Above  me  as  I  die  I 
And  the  palm-tree  wave  o'er  my  noble  grave, 

Under  the  Syrian  sky. 

••  High  hearts  shall  hum  in  the  royal  hall, 
When  the  minstrel  names  that  spot; 

And  the  eyes  I  love  shall  weep  my  fall, — 
Death,  Death  !  I  fear  tliee  not  1"  ' 

"Warrior!  thou  bearest  a  haughty  heart! 

But  I  can  bend  its  pride ! 
How  shouldst  thou  know  that  thy  soul  will  part 

In  the  hour  of  victory's  tide  ? 

"  It  may  be  far  from  thy  steel-clad  bands, 

That  I  shall  make  thee  mine; 
It  may  be  lone  on  the  desert  sands, 

Where  men  for  fountains  pine  I 

4  It  may  be  deep  amidst  heavy  chains, 

In  some  strong  Paynim  hold  ;— 
I  have  slow  dull  steps  and  lingering  paint, 

Wherewith  to  tame  the  bold!" 

"  Death,  Death  !  T  go  to  a  doom  unblest, 

If  this  indeed  must  be  ; 
But  the  cross  is  bound  upon  iny  breast, 

find  I  may  lot  shrink  for  thee  ! 

Sound,  clarion,  sound  !— for  my  vows  are  given 
To  the  cause  of  the  holy  shrine: 
1  bow  my  soul  to  the  will  of  Heaven, 
O  Death!  and  not  to  thine  !" 


THE  TWO   VOICES. 


Two  solemn  Voices  in  a  funeral  strain, 

Met  as  rich  sunbeams  and  dark  hursts  of  rain 

Meet  in  the  sky  : 
"  Thou  art  gone  hence  I"  one  sang;  "  Our  light  is 

flown, 
Our  beautiful,  that  seem'd  too  much  our  own, 

Ever  to  die ! 

"  Thou  art  gone  hence!— our  joyous  hills  among 
Never  again  to  pour  thy  soul  in  song, 

When  spring-flowers  rise! 
Never  the  friend's  familiar  step  to  meet 
With  loving  laughter,  and  the  welcome  sweet 

Of  thy  glad  eyes." 

"  Thou  art  gone  home,  gone  home !"  then,  high  and 

clear, 
Warbled  that  other  Voice .  "  Thou  hast  no  tear 

Airain  to  shed. 

Never  to  fold  the  robe  o'er  secret  pain, 
Never,  weigh'd  down  hy  Memory's  clouds,  again 

To  bow  thy  head. 

"  Thou  art  gone  home  !  oh !  early  crown'd  and 

hleet  ' 
Whore  could  the  love  of  that  deep  heart  find  rest 

With  aught  below  ! 

Thou  must  have  seen  rich  dream  by  dream  decay, 
All  th«  bright  rose-leavos  drop  from  life  away — 

Thrir.e  blest  to  go  !" 

Vet  cieh'd  ai7Hin  that  bree/.o-like  Voice  of  grief — 
"  Thou  art  gone  hence !  alas  !  that  aught  so  brief, 
Si)  loved  should  be! 


Thou  tak      our  summer  hence !  —  the  flower,  tb* 

tone, 
The  music  of  our  being,  nil  in  one, 

Depart  with  thee  I 

"  Fair  form,  young  spirit,  morning  vision  fled! 
Canst  thou  be  of  the  dead,  the  awful  dead! 

The  dark  unknown? 

Yes!  to  the  dwelling  where  no  footsteps  fall. 
Never  again  to  light  up  hearth  or  hall, 

Thy  smile  is  gone!" 

"  Homel  A<wn«.' "once  more  th'  exulting  voice  arow; 
"Thou  art  gone  home  !  Prom  that  divine  repose 

Never  to  roam ! 

Never  to  say  farewell,  to  weep  in  vain, 
To  read  of  change  in  eyes  beloved,  again — 

Thou  art  gone  home  ! 

"  By  the  bright  waters  now  thy  lot  is  cast, — 
Joy  for  thee,  happy  friend!  thy  bark  hath  past 

The  rough  sea's  foam  ! 

Now  the  long  yearnings  of  thy  soul  are  still'd,— 
Home !  home ! — thy  peace  is  won,  thy  heart  is  filPd. 

— Thou  art  gone  home!" 


THE  PARTING  SHIP. 


A  glittering  >hip  that  hath  the  plain 
Of  ocean  for  her  own  domain. 

Wordnoort*. 

Go,  in  thy  glory,  o'er  the  ancient  sea. 
Take  with  thee  gentle  winds  thy  sails  to  swell 

Sunshine  and  joy  upon  thy  streamers  be, — 
Fare  Ihee  well, bark!  farewell  1 

Proudly  the  flashing  billow  thou  hast  cleft. 
The  breeze  yet  follows  thee  w  ilh  cheer  and  sonf 

Who  now  of  storms  hath  dream  or  memory  left  7 
And  yet  the  deep  is  strong ! 

But  go  thou  triumphing,  while  still  the  smuea 
Of  summer  tremble  on  the  water's  breast  1 

Thou  shall  be  greeted  by  a  thousand  isles. 
In  lone,  wild  beauty  drest. 

To  thee  a  welcome,  breathing  o'er  the  tide, 
The  genii  groves  of  Araby  shall  pour; 

Waves  that  enfold  the  pearl  shall  bathe  thy  side 
On  the  old  Indian  shore. 

Oft  shall  the  shadow  of  the  palm-tree  lie 
O'er  glassy  bays  wherein  thy  sails  are  furl'd, 

And  its  leaves  whisper,  as  the  wind  sweeps  by. 
Tales  of  the  elder  world. 

Oft  shall  the  burning  stars  of  Southern  skies. 
On  the  mid-ocean  see  thee  chain'd  in  sleep, 

A  lonely  home  for  human  thoughts  and  tics. 
Between  the  heavens  and  deep. 

Blue  seas  that  roll  on  gorgeous  coasts  renowu'd. 
By  night  shall  sparkle  where  thy  prow  make* 

way ; 
Strange  creatures  of  the  abyss  that  none  may 

sound, 
In  thy  broad  wake  shall  play. 

From  hills  unknown,  in  mingled  joy  and  fear, 
Free  dusky  tribes  shall  pour,  thy  flag  to  mark  J— 

Blessings  go  with  thee  on  thy  lone  career! 
Hail,  and  farewell,  thou  bark  ! 

A  long  farewell !— Thou  wilt  not  bring  us  back 
All  whom  thou  bearest  far  from  home  and  hearth 

Many  are  thine,  whose  steps  no  more  shall  track 
Their  own  sweet  native  earth  ! 

Some  wilt  thou  leave  beneath  the  plantain's  shade, 
Where  through   the   foliage  Indian   suns   look 
bright: 

Some,  in  the  snows  of  wintry  regions  laid. 
By  the  cold  northern  light. 


272 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  some,  far  down  below  the  sounding  wave, — 
Still  shall  they  lie,  though  tempests  o'er  them 
sweep ; 

Never  may  (lower  be  strewn  above  their  grave, 
Never  may  sister  weep  ! 

And  thou— the  billow's  queen  —  even  thy  protid 
form 

On  our  glail  sight  no  more  perchance  may  swell ; 
fet  God  alike  is  in  the  culm  and  storm — 

Fare  thee  well,  bark !  farewell  1 


THE  LAST  TREK  OF  THE  FOREST. 

WHISPER,  thou  Tree,  thou  lonely  Tree, 

One,  where  a  thousand  stood  I 
Well  might  proud  tales  be  told  by  thee. 

Last  of  the  solemn  wood! 

Dwells  there  no  voice  amidst  thy  boughs. 

With  leaves  yet  darkly  green  ? 
Stillness  is  round,  and  noontide  glows — 

Tell  us  what  thou  hast  seen. 

•  I  have  seen  the  forest  shadows  lie 
Where  men  now  reap  the  corn  ; 

1  have  seen  the  kingly  chase  rush  by. 
Through  the  deep  glades  at  morn. 

"With  the  glance  of  many  a  gallant  spear. 

And  the  wave  of  many  a  plume, 
And  the  bounding  of  a  hundred  deer, 

It  hath  lit  the  woodland's  gloom. 

••  I  have  seen  the  knight  and  his  train  ride  part. 

With  his  banner  borne  on  high ; 
O'er  all  my  leaves  there  was  brightness  cast 

From  his  gleaming  panoply. 

14  The  pilgrim  at  my  feet  hath  laid 
His  palm-branch  'midst  the  flowers, 

And  told  his  deeds,  and  meekly  pray'd, 
Kneeling,  at  vesper-hours. 

•  And  the  merry -men  of  wild  and  glen. 
In  the  green  array  they  wore, 

Have  feasted  here  with  the  red  wine's  cheer, 
And  the  hunter's  song  of  yore. 

•'  And  the  minstrel,  resting  in  my  shade. 

Hath  made  the  forest  ring 
With  the  lordly  tales  of  the  high  Crusade, 

Once  loved  by  chief  and  king. 

"  But  now  the  noble  forms  are  gone, 

That  walk'd  the  earth  of  old; 
The  soft  wind  hath  a  mournful  tone. 

The  sunny  light  look*  cold. 

"  There  is  no  glory  left  us  now. 

Like  the  glory  with  the  dead: — 
I  would  that  where  they  slumber  low 

My  latest  leaves  were  shed !" 

Oh !  thou  dark  Tree,  thou  lonely  tree, 

That  mourn rst  for  the  past  1 
A  peasant's  home  in  thy  shades  I  see, 

Embower'd  from  every  blast. 

A  lovely  and  a  mirthful  sound 

Of  laughter  meets  mine  ear; 
For  the  poor  man's  children  sport  around 

On  the  turf,  with  naught  to  fear. 

And  roses  lend  that  cabin's  wall 

A  happy  summer-glow ; 
And  the  open  door  stands  free  to  all, 

For  it  recks  not  of  a  foe. 

And  the  village  bells  are  on  the  breeze 

That  stirs  thy  leaf,  dark  Tree! 
How  can  I  mourn,  'midst  things  like  these, 

For  the  stormy  p-ist,  with  thee? 


THE  STREAMS. 

The  power,  the  beauty,  and  the  majesty, 

That  had  their  haunts  in  dale  nr  piny  mountlte, 

Or  forest  by  slow  stream,  or  pebbly  spring, 

Or  chasms  and  watery  depths  ;  all  those  have  noUM  I 

They  live  no  longer  in  the  faith  of  heaven, 

But  itill  the  heart  doth  need  a  language  ! 

Cultndgti  Wallauttm. 

YE  have  been  holy,  O  founts  and  floods! 
Ye  of  the  ancient  and  solemn  troqdtf. 
Ye  that  are  born  of  th?  valleys  deep. 
With  the  water-floweid  on  your  breast  asleep, 
And  ye  that  gush  from  the  sounding  caves — 
Hallow'd  have  been  your  wave*. 

Hallow'd  by  man,  in  his  dreams  of  old, 
Unto  beings  not  of  this  mortal  mould, 
Viewless,  and  deathless,  and  wondrous  powers, 
Whose  voice  he  heard  in  his  lonely  hours, 
And  sought  with  its  fancied  sound  to  still 
The  heart  earth  could  not  fill. 

Therefore  the  flowers  of  bright  summers  gone. 
O'er  your  sweet  waters,  ye  streams!  were  throw  1 
Thousand  of  gifts,  to  the  sunny  sea 
Have  ye  swept  along  in  your  wanderings  free, 
And  thrill'd  to  the  murmur  of  many  a  vow— 
Where  all  is  silent  now  1 

Nor  seems  it  strange  that  the  heart  hath  been 
So  link'd  in  love  to  your  margins  green  ; 
That  still,  though  rnin'd,  your  early  shrines 
In  beauty  gleam  through  the  southern  vines. 
And  the  ivied  chapels  of  colder  skies, 
On  your  wild  banks  arise. 

For  the  loveliest  scenes  of  the  glowing  earth, 
Are   those,   bright  streams !  where   your  spring* 

have  birth  : 

Whether  their  cavern'd  murmur  tills, 
With  a  tone  of  plaint,  the.  hollow  hills, 
Or  the  glad  sweet  laugh  of  their  healthful  flow 
Is  heard  'midst  the  hamlets  low. 

Or  whether  ye  gladden  the  desert-sands, 
With  a  joyous  music  to  Pilgrim  bands. 
And  a  flash  from  under  some  ancient  rock, 
Where  a  shepherd-king  might  have  watch'd  b1* 

flock, 

Where  a  few  lone  palm-trees  lift  their  heads, 
And  a  green  Acacia  spreads. 

Or  whether,  in  bright  old  lands  renown'd, 
Tlic  laurels  thrill  to  your  first-born  sound, 
And  the  shadow,  flung  from  the  Grecian  pine. 
Sweeps  with  the  breeze  o'er  your  gleaming  line. 
And  the  tall  reeds  whisper  to  your  waves, 
Beside  heroic  graves. 

Voices  and  lights  of  the  lonely  place! 
By  the  freshest  fern  your  path  we  trace; 
By  the  brightest  cups  on  the  emerald  moss, 
Whose  fairy  goblets  the  turf  emboss, 
By  the  rainbow-glancing  of  insect  wings, 
In  a  thousand  mazy  rings. 

There  sucks  the  bee,  for  the  richest  flowers 
Are  all  your  own  through  the  summer-hours ; 
There  the  proud  stag  his  fair  image  knows, 
Traced  on  your  glass  beneath  alder-boughs. 
And  the  Halcyon's  breast,  like  the  skies  array'd, 
Gleams  through  vhe  willow-shade. 

But  the  wild  sweet  talcs,  tl»  it  with  elves  and  Ay 
Peopled  your  banks  in  the    <tlen  days, 
And  the  memory  left  by  d<  parted  love, 
To  your  antique  founts  i'  glen  and  grove, 
And  the  glory  born  of  tli    poet's  dreams — 

Theft  are  your  charms,  bright  streams 

Now  is  the  time  jf  your  flowery  rites. 
Gone  by  with  its  dances  and  young  delights: 


REMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


273 


from  your  marble  urns  ye  have  burst  away 
Prom  your  chapel-cells  to  the  laughing  day 
Low  lie  your  altars  with  moss  o'ergrown, 

— And  the  woods  again  are  loi.« 

Yet  holy  still  be  your  living  springs, 
Haunts  of  all  gentle  and  gladsome  things! 
Holy,  to  converse  with  nature's  lore, 
That  gives  the  worn  spirit  its  youth  once  more, 
And  to  silent  thoughts  of  the  love  divine, 
Making  the  heart  a  shrin' 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  WINb. 


There  it  nothing  in  the  wide  ' 


like  the  voice  of  a  spirit 
Gray1!  Lettcrt. 


Oi[!  many  a  voice  is  thine,  thou  Wind  !  full  many 

a  voice  is  thine, 
From  every  scene  thy  wing  o'ersweeps  thou  bcar'sl 

a  sound  and  sign  ; 
A  minstrel  wild  and  strong  thou  art,  with  a  mas 

tery  all  thine  own, 
And  the  spirit  is  thy  harp,  O  Wind!  that  gives  the 

answering  tone. 

Thou  hast  been  across  red  fields  of  war,  where 

shiver'd  helmets  lie. 
And  thou  bringest  thence  the  thrilling  note  of  a 

clarion  in  the  sky  ; 
A  rustling  of  proud  banner-folds,  a  poal  of  stormy 

drums, — 
All  these  are  in  thy  music  met,  as  when  a  leader 

comes. 

Thou  hast  been  o'er  solitary  seas,  and  from  their 
wastes  brought  back 

Each  noise  of  waters  that  awoke  in  the  mystery 
of  thy  track ; 

The  chime  of  low  soft  southern  waves  on  some 
green  palmy  shore, 

The  hollow  roll  of  distant  surge,  the  gather'd  bil- 
lows' roar. 

Thou  art  come  from  forests  dark  and  deep,  thou 

mighty  rushing  Wind  ! 
And  thou  bearest   all  their  unisons   in  one  full 

swell  combined  ; 
The  restless  pines,  the  moaning  stream,  all  hidden 

things  and  free, 
Of  the  dim  old  sounding  wilderness,  have  lent 

their  soul  to  thee. 

Thou  art  come  from  cities  lighted  up  for  the  con- 
queror passing  by, 

Thou  art  waft.ng  from  their  streets  a  sound  of 
haughty  revelry  ; 

The  rolling  of  triumphant  wheels,  the  harpinss  in 
the  hall, 

The  far-off  shout  of  multitude,  are  i"  thv  rise 
and  fall. 

Thou  art  come  from  kingly  tomes  an»,  jnnr.es, 

from  ancient  minsters  vast, 
Through  the  dark  aisles  of  a  thousand  years  thy 

lonely  wing  hath  pass'd  ; 
Thou  hast,  caught  the  anthem's  billowy  swell,  the 

stately  (Urge's  tone, 
For  a  chief,  with  f<word,  and  shield,  and  helm,  to 

his  place  of  slumber  gone. 

Thou  art  come  from  long-forsaken  homes,  wherein 

our  young  days  flew, 
Thou  hast  fouiftl  sweet  voices  lingering  there,  the 

loved,  the  kind,  the  true  ; 
Thou  callest  back  those  melodies,  though  now  all 

changed  and  fled, — 
Be  still,  be  still,  and  haunt  us  not  with  music  from 

the  dead ! 

Are  all  these  notes  in  thee,  wild  Wind  ?  these  many 

notes  in  t/iee  ? 
TOT  in  our  own  unfathom'd  souls  their  fount  must 

surely  be ; 

18 


Yes!  berried,  but  unsleeping,  there  Thought  wattft- 

es,  Memory  lies, 
From  whose  deep  urn  the  tones  are  pour'd  througr 

all  Earth's  harmonies. 


THE   VIGIL  OF   ARMS* 


A  SOCNDIHO  step  was  heard  by  night 

In  a  church  where  the  mighty  slept, 
As  a  mail-clad  youth,  till  morning's  light. 

'Midst  the  tombs  his  vigil  kept. 
He  walk'd  in  dreams  of  power  and  fame. 

He  lifted  a  proud,  bright  eye, 
For  the  hours  were  few  that  withheld  his  name 

From  the  roll  of  chivalry. 

Down  the  moon-lit  aisles  he  paced  alone, 

With  a  free  and  stately  tread  ; 
And  the  floor  gave  back  a  muffled  tone 

From  the  couches  of  the  dead : 
The  silent  many  that  round  him  lay, 

The  crown'd  and  helm'd  th.it  were, 

ne  haughty  chiefs  of  the  war-array — 

Each  in  his  sepulchre  1 

But  no  dim  warning  of  time  or  fate 

That  youth's  flush'd  hopes  could  chill, 
He  moved  through  the  trophies  of  buried  state 

With  each  proud  pulse  throbbing  still. 
He  heard,  as  the  wind  through  the  chancel  sung 

A  swell  of  the  trumpet's  breath: 
He  look'd  to  the  banners  on  high  that  hung. 

And  not  to  tli.j  dust  beneath. 

And  a  royal  masque  of  splendour  secm'd 

Before  him  to  unfold  ; 
Through  the  solemn  arches  on  it  stream'd, 

With  many  a  gleam  of  gold: 

Fhere  were  crested  knight,  and  gorgeous  dame. 

Glittering  athwart  the  gloom. 
And  he  follow'd,  till  his  bold  step  came 

To  his  warrior-father's  tomb. 

But  there  the  still  and  shadowy  might 

Of  the  monumental  stone, 
And  the  holy  sleep  of  the  soft  lamp's  ligh* 

Th:it  over  its  quiet  shone. 
And  th  •  image  of  that  sire,  who  died 

In  his  noonday  of  renown — 
These  had  a  power  unto  which  the  pride 

Of  fiery  life  bow'd  down. 

And  a  spirit  from  his  early  years 

Came  back  o'er  his  thoughts  to  move, 
Till  his  eye  was  fill'd  with  memory's  tears, 

And  his  heart  with  childhood's  love  I 
And  he  look'd,  with  a  change   in   his  softening 
glance. 

To  the  armour  o'er  the  grave, — 
For  there  they  hung,  the  shield  and  lance, 

And  the  gauntlet  of  the  brave. 

And  the  sword  of  many  a  field  was  there. 

With  its  cross  for  the  hour  of  need, 
When  the   knight's  bold   war-cry  hath  sunk  in 
prayer. 

And  the  spear  is  a  broken  reed  I 
—  Hush!  did  a  breeze  through  the  armour  light 

Did  the  fold  of  the  banner  shake  ? 
Not  so !— from  the  tomb's  dark  mystery 

There  seem'd  a  voice  to  break  ! 

He  had  heard  that  voice  bid  clarions  blotf, 

He  had  caught  its  last  blessing's  breath, — 
'T  was  the  same — but  its  awful  sweetness  now 

Had  an  under-tone  of  death  ! 
And  it  said,— "The  sword  hath  conquer'd  kings, 

And  the  spear  through  realms  hath  pass'd; 
But  the  cross,  alone,  of  all  these  thing*, 

Might  aid  me  at  the  last. 

"  *  The  candidate  for  kni?hthood  was  under  the  necessity  rf  ke«J 

.  v.   tu,,    ;,rKt  hpfnre  his  iiiau'uratt'in.  in  a  church,  ana  co™ 


274 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  BEINGS  OF  THE  MIND 


The  being!  of  the  mind  are  not  of  clay ; 

Essentially  immortal,  they  create 

And  multiply  in  ut  a  brighter  ray, 

And  more  beloved  exigence ;  that  which  Fat* 

Prohibits  to  dull  life,  in  thii  our  state 

Of  mortal  bondage. 

Byron. 

COME  to  me  with  your  triumphs  and  your  woes, 
Ye  forms,  to  life  by  glorious  poets  brought  1 

I  sit  alone  with  flowers  and  vernal  boughs. 
In  the  deep  shadow  of  a  voiceless  thought ; 

'Midst  the  glad  music  of  the  spring  alone, 

And  sorrowful  for  visions  that  are  gone  ! 

Conr.e  to  me  !  make  your  thrilling  whispers  heard, 
Ye,  by  those  masters  of  the  soul  endow'd 

With  life,  and  love,  and  many  a  burning  word, 
Tint  bursts  from  grief,  like  lightning  from  a 
cloud, 

And  smites  the  heart,  till  all  its  chords  reply, 

As  leaves  make  answer  when  the  wind  sweeps  by. 

Come  t«  me  !  visit  my  dim  haunt !— the  sound 
Of  hidden  springs  is  in  the  grass  beneath ; 

The  stock-dove's  note  above  ;  and  all  around, 
The  poesy  that  with  the  violet's  breatli 

loats  through  the  air,  in  rich  andsuddr  i  streams, 

.Singling,  like  music,  with  the  soul's  deep  dreams 

Friends,  friends !  —  for  such  to  my  lone  heart  ye 

are- 
Unchanging  ones!  from  whose  immortal  eyes 

The  glory  melts  not  as  a  waning  star. 
And  the  sweet  kindness  never,  never  dies; 

Bright  children  of  the  bard  !  o'er  this  green  dell 

Pass  .i.ir.e  a_;n.i,  iuul  ln.lit  it  with  your  spell ! 

Imogen  !  fair  Fidele !  meekly  blending 

la  patient  «ri.:i',  a  '•smiling  with  a  sigh;"* 

A  1 1  thou,  Cordelia  !  faithful  daughter,  tending 
That  sire,  an  outcast  to  the  hitter  sky ; 

Tliou  of  Uie  si  ill  iuw  voice ! — thou  art  not  gone  I 

Still  breathes  for  me  its  faitit  and  flute-like  tone. 

And  come  to  me!  sing  me  thy  willow-strain. 
Sweet  Desdemona !  with  the  sad  surprise 

In  thy  beseeching  glance,  where  still,  though  vain, 
Undimm'd,  unquenchable  affection  lies  ; 

Come,  bowing  thy  young  head  to  wrong  and  scorn. 

As  a  frail  hyacinth,  by  showers  o'erborne. 

And  thou,  too,  fair  Ophelia !  flowers  are  here 

That  well  might  win  thy  footstep  to  the  spot- 
Pale  cowslips,  meet  for  maiden's  early  bier, 

And  pansies  for  sad  thoughts,f — but  needed  not ! 
Come  with  thy  wreaths,  and  all  the  love  and  light 
In  that  wild  eye  still  tremulously  bright. 

And  Juliet,  vision  of  the  south!  enshrining 
All  gifts  that  unto  its  rich  heaven  belong; 

The  glow,  the  sweetness,  in  its  rose  conjoining, 
Tin;  soul  its  nightingales  pour  forth  in  song  1 

Thou,  making  death  deep  joy  !— but  couldst  thou 
die? 

No ! — thy  young  love  hath  immortality ! 

From  earth's  bright  faces  fades  the  light  of  morn, 
From  earth's  glad  voices  drops  the  joyous  tone  ; 

But  ye,  the  children  of  the  soul,  were  born 
Deathless,  and  for  undying  love  alone ; 

And,  oh !  ye  beautiful  I  'tis  well,  how  well, 

In  the  soul's  world,  with  you,  where  change  is  not, 
to  dwell ! 


*  Nobly  he  yoke* 
A  smiling  with  a  sigh. 

Cymbclmt. 
t  HOT*  paniiet  for  you— that '« for  thoughts. 

•MM 


TASSO'S  CORONATION.* 


A  crown  of  victory !  a  triumphal  long! 
Oh !  call  Mine  friend,  upon  whose  pitying  halt 
The  weary  one  may  calmly  link  to  rait : 
Let  some  kind  voice,  betide  hit  lowly  couch, 
Pour  the  last  prayer  for  mortal  agony  I 


A  TRUMPET'S  note  in  in  the  sky,  in  the  gloriout 
Roman  sky, 

Whose  dome  hath  rung,  so  many  an  age,  to  .be 
voice  of  victory ; 

There  is  crowding  to  the  capitol,  the  imperial 
streets  along. 

For  again  a  conqueror  must  be  crown'd,— a  kingly- 
child  of  song : 

Yet  his  chariot  lingers, 
Yet  around  his  home 
Broods  a  shadow  silently, 
'Midst  the  joy  of  Rome. 

A  thousand  thousand  laurel-boughs  are  waving 

wide  and  far, 
To  shed  out  their  triumphal  gleams  around  hit 

rolling  car; 
A  thousand  haunts  of  olden  gods  have  given  their 

wealth  of  flowers. 
To  scatter  o'er  his  path  of  fame  bright  hues  in 

eeni-'ike  showers. 

Peace  !  within  his  chamber 

Low  the  mighty  lies ; 

With  a  cloud  of  dreams  on  his  noble  brow, 

And  a  wandering  in  his  eyes. 

Sing,  sing  for  him,  the  lord  of  song,  for  him,  whose 

rushing  strain 
In  mastery  o'er  the  spirit  sweeps,  like  a  strong 

wind  o'or  the  main ' 

Whose  voice  lives  deep  in  burning  hearts,  for  ever 

there  to  dwell, 
As  full-toned  oracles  are  shrined  in  a  temple's  ho. 

liest  cell. 

Yes  I  for  him,  the  victor, 
8ing, — but  low,  sing  low  I 
A  soft  sad  miserere  chaat 
For  a  soul  about  to  go  1 

The  sun,  the  sun  of  Italy  is  pouring  o'er  his  way, 
Where  the  old  three  hundred  triumphs  moved,  a 

flood  of  golden  day ; 
Streaming  through  every  haughty  arch  of  the  Cm- 

sars'  past  renown — 
Bring  forth,  in  that  exulting  light,  the  conqueror 

for  his  crown ! 

Shut  the  proud  bright  sunshine 
From  the  fading  sight ! 
There  needs  no  ray  by  the  bed  of  death, 
Save  the  holy  taper's  light. 

The  wreath  is  twined, — the  way  is  strewn — the 

lordly  train  are  met — 
The  streets  are  hung  with  ooronals — why  stays 

the  minstrel  yet  ? 
Shout !  as  an  army  shouts  in  joy  around  a  royal 

chief- 
Bring  forth  the  bard  of  chivalry,  the  bard  of  love 

and  grief  I 

Silence !  forth  we  bring  him, 

In  his  last  array ; 

From  love  and  grief  the  freed,  the  flown— 

Way  for  the  bier— make  way  1 


THE  BETTER  LAND. 


I  HEAR  thee  speak  of  the  better  land, 
Thou  callest  its  children  a  happy  band; 
Mother !  oh  where  is  that  radiant  shore  ? 
Shall  we  not  seek  it,  and  weep  no  more? 


•TaiM  died  at  Rome  on  the  day  before  th>    appointed  for  bit 
Coronation  in  the  CapltoO 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


275 


js  it  where  the  flower  of  the  orange  blows, 
And  the  fire-flies  glance  through  the  myrtle  boughs? 
— "  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child!" 

•  Is  it  where  the  feathery  palm-trees  rise, 
And  the  date  grows  ripe  under  sunny  skies?  , 

Or  'midst  the  green  islands  of  glittering  seas, 
Where  fragrant  forests  perfume  the  breeze, 
And  strange,  bright  birds,  on  their  starry  wings 
Bear  the  rich  hues  of  all  glorious  things?" 

— "  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child!" 

"  Is  it  far  iway,  in  some  region  old, 
Where  the  rivers  wander  o'er  sands  of  gold  ?— 
VV>.ere  the  burning  rays  of  the  ruby  shine, 
Ar.d  the  diamond  lights  up  the  secret  mine, 
And  the  pearl  gleams  forth  from  the  coral  strand  f 
Is  it  there,  sweet  mother,  that  better  land  ?" 
— "  Not  there,  not  there,  my  child ! 

"  Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  my  gentle  boy  I 
Ear  hath  not  heard  its  deep  songs  of  joy ; 
Dreams  cannot  picture  a  world  so  fair — 
Borrow  and  death  may  not  enter  there ; — 
Time  doth  not  breathe  on  its  fadeless  bloom, 
For  beyond  the  clouds,  and  beyond  the  tomb, 
—  It  is  there,  it  is  there,  my  child  1" 


THE  REQUIEM  OF  GENIUS. 


Lcs  poetes  dont  ^imagination  tient  a  la  puissance  d'aimer  et  dt 
tmrfTrir,  ne  sont-ih  pu  les  bannis  cl'une  autre  region  ? 

Madame  Dt  Stud.   De  VAllenuignt. 


No  tears  for  thee ! — though  light  be  from  us  gone 
With  thy  soul's  radiance,  bright,  yet  restless  onel 

No  tears  for  thee  \ 

They  that  have  loved  an  exile,  must  not  mourn 
fo  see  him  parting  for  his  native  bourne 

O'er  the  dark  sea. 

All  the  high  music  of  thy  spirit  here, 
Breathed  but  the  language  nf  another  sphere, 

Unechoed  round ; 
And  strange,  though  sweet,  as  'midst  our  weeping 

skies 
6oine  tialf-rcmember'd  strain  of  paradise 

Might  sadly  sound. 

Hast  t  him  been  answer'd  ?  thou,  that  from  the  night 
And  fmm  the  voices  of  the  tempest's  might, 

And  from  the  past, 

W.-rt  «»(<king  still  some  oracle's  reply, 
IjU  pour  the  secrets  of  man's  destiny 

Forth  on  the  blast  1 

Hast  thou  been  answer'd  ?— tfcou,  that  through  the 

gloom, 
And  shadow,  and  stern  silence  of  the  tomb, 

A  cry  didst  send, 

Bo  passionate  and  <l<*f|> 7  to  pierce,  to  move, 
Tu  win  back  token  of  uaburied  love 
From  buriPd  friend  1 

And  hast  thou  found  where  living  waters  burst? 
Thou,  that  didst  pine  amidst  us,  in  the  thirst 

Of  fever-dreams  1 

Are  the  true  fountains  tlune  for  evermore? 
Ohl  lured  so  loti«  by  shining  mists,  that  wore 

The  light  of  etreamsl 

Speak  1  is  it  well  with  thee  ?— We  call,  as  thtu, 
With  thy  lit  eye,  deep  voice,  and  kindled  brow, 

Wert  wont  to  call 

On  the  departed  1  Art  thou  West  and  free? 
—Alas  !  the  lips  earth  covers,  even  to  thee, 

Were  silent  all ! 

«t  shall  our  hope  ri»:  fann'd  by  quenchless  faith. 
As  a  flan. o,  foster'd  .iy  some  warm  wind's  breath, 

In  light  upsprings : 
frreed  soul  of  song !  yes,  thou  hast    found  the 

sought ; 

Borne  to  thy  home  of  beauty  and  of  thought. 
On  morn' ng's  wings. 


And  we  will  dream  it  is  thy  joy  we  hear, 
When  life's  young  music,  ringing  far  and  clear, 

O'erflows  the  sky : 

—No  tears  for  thee !  the  lingering  gloom  is  ours— 
Thou  art  for  converse  with  all  glorious  powers, 

Never  to  die ! 


SADNESS  AND  MIRTH. 


Nay,  thete  wild  fiti  of  uncurb'd  laughter 
Athwart  the  gloomy  tenor  of  your  mind, 
Ja  it  hat  lower'd  of  late,  so  keenly  cast, 
Hnsuited  teem,  and  strange. 

Oh '.  nothing  itrange  ! 

Didst  thou  ne'er  tee  the  swallow'i  veering  breast, 
Winging  the  air  beneath  some  murky  cloud, 
In  t«  mnn'd  glimpses  of  a  troubled  day, 
Shiver  In  silvery  brightness  ? 
Or  boatman's  oar,  as  vivid  lightning  flash 
In  the  faint  gleam,  that  like  a  ipirit's  path, 
Tracks  the  still  miters  of  some  sullen  lake? 

O,  gentle  friend  ! 

Chide  not  her  mirth,  who  yesterday  was  sad, 
And  may  be  to  to-morrow ! 

Joanna  Bailllt. 


YE  met  at  the  stately  feasts  of  old, 
Where  the  bright  wine  foam'd  over  sculptured  gold, 
Sadness  and  Mirth  I — ye  were  mingled  there 
With  the  sound  of  the  lyre  in  the  scented  air ; 
As  the  cloud  and  the  lightning  are  blent  on  high, 
Ye  mix'd  in  the  gorgeous  revelry. 

For  there  hung  o'er  those  banquets  of  yore  a  gloom, 
A  thought  and  a  shadow  of  the  tomb; 
It  gave  to  the  flute-notes  an  under-tone, 
To  the  rose  a  colouring  not  its  own, 
To  the  breath  of  the  myrtle  a  mournful  power- 
Sadness  and  Mirth  !  ye  had  each  your  dower  1 

Ye  met  when  the  triumph  swept  proudly  by. 
With  the  Roman  eagles  through  the  sky  ! 
I  know  that  ev'n  then,  in  his  hour  of  pride, 
The  soul  of  the  might  v  within  him  died  ; 
That  a  void  in  his  bosom  lay  darkly  still. 
Which  the  music  of  victory  might  never  fi!l  1 

Fhou  wert  there,  oh!  Mirth!  swelling  on  the  shout. 
Till  the  temples,  like  echo-caves,  rang  out ; 
rhine  were  the  garlands,  the  songs,  the  wine. 
All  the  rich  voices  in  air  were  thine, 
The  incense,  the  sunshine — but,  Sadness  !  (Ay  part, 
Deepest  of  all,  was  the  victor's  heart ! 

Ye  meet  at  the  bridal  with  flower  and  tear ; 
Strangely  and  wildly  ye  meet  by  the  bier  1 
As  the  gleam  from  a  sea-bird's  white  wing  shed. 
Crosses  the  storm  in  its  path  of  dread  ; 
As  a  dirge  meets  the  breeze  of  a  summer  sky- 
Sadness  and  Mirth !  so  ye  come  and  fly  1 

Ye  meet  in  the  poet's  haunted  breast, 
Darkness  and  rainbow,  alike  its  guest ! 
When  the  breath  of  the  violet  is  out  in  spring, 
When  the  woods  with  the  wakeni ng  of  music  ring, 
O'er  his  dreamy  spirit  your  currents  pass, 
Like  Hhadow  and  sunlight  o'er  mountain  grass. 

When  will  your  parting  be.  Sadness  and  Mirth  T 
Bright  stream  and  dark  one !— oh !  never  on  earth ; 
Never  while  triumphs  and  tombs  are  so  near, 
While  Death  and  Love  walk  the  same  dim  sphere. 
While  flowers  unfold  where  the  storm  may  sweep. 
While  the  heart  of  man  is  a  soundless  deep! 

But  there  smiles  a  land,  oh  t  ye  troubled  pair  I 
Where  ye  have  no  part  in  the  summer  air. 
Far  from  the  breathings  of  changeful  skies, 
Over  the  seas  and  the  craves  it  lies; 
Where  the  day  of  the  lightning  and  cloud 
And  joy  reigns  alone,  as  »he  lonely  sun  t 


276 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


SECOND   SIGHT. 


If  e'er  err'd  the  prophet  heart  that  grief  inspired, 
Though  joy's  illusions  mock  their  votarist. 


A  MooRNrnt  gift  is  mine.  O  friends  ! 

A  mournful  gift  ia  mine  ! 
\  murmur  of  the  soul  which  blends 

With  the  flow  of  song  and  wine. 

An  eye  that  through  the  triumph's  hour. 

Beholds  the  coming  woe, 
And  dwells  upon  the  faded  flower 

'Midst  the  rich  summer's  glow. 

Ye  smile  to  view  fair  faces  bloom 
Where  the  father's  board  is  spread  ; 

I  see  the  stillness  and  the  gloom 
Of  a  home  whence  all  are  fled. 

I  see  the  wither'd  garlands  lie 

Forsaken  on  the  earth, 
While  the  lamps  yet  burn,  and  the  dancers  fly 

Through  the  ringing  hall  of  mirth. 

see  the  blood-red  future  stain 
On  the  warrior's  gorgeous  crest ; 
And  the  bier  amidst  the  bridal  train 
When  they  come  with  roses  drest. 

I  hear  the  still  small  moan  of  Time, 

Through  the  ivy  branches  made, 
Where  the  palace,  in  its  glory's  prime, 

With  the  sunshine  stands  array'd. 

The  thunder  of  the  seas  I  hear, 

The  shriek  along  the  wave. 
When  the  bark  sweeps  forth,  and  song  and  cheer 

Salute  the  parting  brave 

With  every  breeze  a  spirit  sends 

To  me  some  warning  sign  : — 
A  mournful  gift  is  mine,  6  friends  I 

A  mournful  gift  is  mine  t 

Oh !  prophet  heart !  thy  grief,  thy  power. 

To  all  deep  sou  Is  belong ; 
The  shadow  in  the  sunny  hour, 

The  wail  in  the  mirthful  song. 

There  sight  is  all  too  sadly  clear — 

For  them  a  veil  is  riven : 
Their  piercing  thoughts  repose  not  here. 

Their  home  is  but  in  Heaven. 


THE  SEA-BIRD  FLYING  INLAND. 


Thy  path  b  not  a>  mine :— where  thou  art  blest, 
My  spirit  would  but  wither :  mine  own  grief 
Is  in  mine  eyes  a  richer,  holier  thing 
Than  all  thy  happiness. 


FI\TH  the  summer's  breath,  on  the  south-wind 

borne, 

Met  the  dark  seas  in  their  sweeping  scorn  ? 
Hath  it  lured  thee,  Bird!  from  their  sounding  caves, 
To  the  river-shores,  where  the  osier  waves? 

Or  art  thou  come  on  the  hills  to  dwell. 

Where  the  sweet-voiced  echoes  have  many  a  cell? 

Where  the  moss  bears  print  of  the  wild-deer's 

tread, 
\IK!  the  heath  like  a  royal  robe  is  spread  1 

Thou  hast  done  well,  O  thou  bright  sea-bird  ! 
Th'>re  is  joy  where  the  song  of  the  lark  is  heard. 
With  the  dancing  of  waters  through  copse  and  dell 
And  the  bee's  low  tune  in  the  foxglove's  bell. 

Thou  hast  done  well :— Oh !  the  seas  are  lone, 
And  the  voice  they  send  up  hath  a  mournful  tone; 
A  mingling  of  dirges  and  wild  farewells, 
Fitfally  breathed  through  its  anthem-swells. 

—The  proud  bird  rose  as  the  words  were  said— 
The  rush  of  his  pinion  swept  o'er  my  head, 
And  the  glance  of  his  eye,  in  its  bright  disdain, 
Epoke  him  a  child  of  the  haughty  main. 


He  hath  flown  from  the  woods  to  the  ocean's  brsaat 
To  his  throne  of  pride  on  the  billow's  creel  I 
— Oh  !  who  shall  say,  to  a  spirit  free, 
"  There  lies  the  pathway  of  bliss  for  thee  7" 


THE    SLEEPER, 


For  sleep  U  awful. .Byron. 


OH  !  lightly,  lightly  tread ! 

A  holy  thing  is  sleep, 
On  the  worn  spirit  shed, 

And  eyes  that  wake  to  weep. 

A  holy  thing  from  Heaven, 

A  gracious  dewy  cloud, 
A  covering  mantle  given 

The  weary  to  enshroud. 

Oh !  lightly,  lightly  tread 1 
Revere  the  pale  still  brow, 

The  meekly-drooping  head, 
The  long  hair's  willowy  flow. 

Yc  know  not  what  ye  do, 
That  call  the  slumberer  back. 

From  the  world  unseen  by  you. 
Unto  life's  dim  faded  track. 

Her  soul  is  far  away, 

In  her  childhood's  land,  perchance. 
Where  her  young  sisters  play, 

Where  shines  her  mother's  glance. 

Some  old  sweet  native  sound 

Her  spirit  haply  weaves; 
A  harmony  profound 

Of  woods  with  all  their  leaves; 

A  murmur  of  the  sea, 

A  laughing  tone  of  streams:— 
Long  may  her  sojourn  be 

In  the  music-land  of  dreams  I 

Each  voice  of  love  is  there. 
Each  gleam  of  beauty  fled, 

Each  lost  one  still  more  fair — 
Oh  !  lightly,  lightly  tread  I 


THE  MIRROR  IN  THE  DESERTED  HALL 

O,  DIM,  forsaken  mirror! 
How  many  a  stately  throng 
Hath  o'er  thee  gleam'd,  in  vanish'd  hours 
Of  the  wine-cup  and  the  song  I 

The  song  hath  left  no  echo ; 

The  bright  wine  hath  been  quafTd; 
And  hush'd  is  every  silvery  voice 

That  lightly  here  hath  laugh'd. 

Oh!  mirror,  lonely  mirror, 

Thou  of  the  silent  hall! 
Thou  hast  been  flush'd  with  beauty's  blootT  • 

Is  this,  too,  vanish'd  all? 

It  is,  with  the  scatter'd  garlands 

Of  triumphs  long  ago  ; 
With  the  melodies  of  buried  lyres ; 

With  the  faded  rainbow's  glow. 

And  for  all  the  gorgeous  pageants. 

For  the  glance  of  gem  and  plume. 
For  lamp,  arid  harp,  and  rosy  wreath, 

And  vase  of  rich  perfume. 

Now,  dim,  forsaken  mirror, 

Thou  givest  but  faintly  back 
The  quiet  stars,  and  the  sailing  moon. 

On  her  solitary  track. 

And  thus  with  man's  proud  spirit 

Thou  tellest  me  'twill  be, 
When  the  forms  and  hues  of  this  world  fade 

From  his  memory,  as  from  thee : 

And  his  heart's  long-troubled  waters 

At  last  in  stillness  lie, 
Reflecting  but  the  images 

Of  the  solemn  world  on  high. 


THE   FOREST   SANCTUARY. 


IBB  voices  of  my  home ! — I  hear  them  still ! 
They  have  been  with  me  through  the  dreamy 

night— 

The  blessed  household  voices,  wont  to  fill 
My  heart's  clear  depths  with  unalloy'd  delight ! 
I  hear  them  still  unchanged:— though  some  from 

earth 

Are  music  parted,  and  the  tones  of  mirth— 
Wild,  silvery  tones,  that  rang  through  days 

more  bright ! 

Have  died  in  others, — yet  to  me  they  come, 
Singing  of  boyhood  back— the  voices  of  my  home  ! 

II. 

They  call  me  through  this  hush  of  woods,  re 

posing 

In  the  gray  stillness  of  the  summer  morn, 
They  wander  by  when  heavy  flowers  are  closing, 
And  thoughts  grow  deep,  and  winds  and  star* 

are  born ; 

E'en  as  a  fount's  remember'd  gushings  burst 
On  the  parch'd  traveller  in  his  hour  of  thirst, 
E'en  thus  they  haunt  me  with  sweet  sounds,  till 

worn 

By  quenchless  longings,  to  my  soul  I  say — 
Oh  1  for  the  dove's  swift  wings,  that  I  might  flee 

away, 

III. 

And  find  mine  ark!— yet  whither?— I  must  bear 
A  yearning  heart  within  me  to  the  grave. 
I  am  of  those  o'er  whom  a  breath  o.  ajr- 
Jim  darkening  in  its  course  the  lake's  bright 

wave, 
And  sighing  through  the  feathery  canes(l)  — 

hath  power 

To  call  up  shadows,  HI  the  silent  hour. 
From  the  dim  past,  as  from  a  wizard's  cave  I 
So  must  it  be ! — These  skies  above  me  spread, 
Are  they  my  own  soft  skies  1 — Ye  rest  not  here, 

my  dead  1 

IV 

Ye  far  amidst  tbe  southern  flowers  lie  sleeping. 
Your  graves  all  smiling  in  the  sunshine  clear, 
Save  one! — a  blue,  lone,  distant  main  is  sweep 

ing 

High  o'er  one  gentle  head— ye  rest  not  here!— 
*Tis  not  the  olive,  with  a  whisper  swaying. 
Not  thy  low  ripplings,  glassy  water,  playing 
Through  my  own  chestnut  groves,  which  fill 

mine  ear; 

But  the  faint  echoes  in  my  breast  that  dwell, 
And  for  their  birth-place  moan,   as  moans  the 

ocean-shell.  (2) 

V. 

Peace! — I  will  dash  these  fond  regrets  to  earth, 
Ev'n  as  an  eagle  shakes  tiie  cumbering  rain 


From  his  strong  pinion.    Thou  that  gav*rt  •• 

birth, 

And  lineage,  and  once  home,  my  native  Spain. 
My  own    bright   land — my  father's  land — my 

child's! 
What  hath  thy  son  brought  from  thee  to  the 

wilds? 

He  hath  brought  marks  of  torture  and  the  chain, 
Traces  of  things  which  pass  not  as  a  breeze. 
A  blighted  name,  dark  thoughts,  wrath,  woe— thy 

gifts  are  these. 

VI. 

A  blighted  name !— I  hear  the  winds  of  morn— 
Their  sounds  are  not  of  this!— 1  hear  the  shiver 
Of  the  green  reeds,  and  all  the  rustlings,  borne 
From  the  high  forest,  when   the  light  leave« 

quiver: 

Their  sou  nds  are  not  of  this ! — the  cedars,  wa  vi  ng, 
Lend  it  no  tone:  His  wide  savannahs  laving, 
It  is  not  murmur'd  by  the  joyous  river ! 
What  part  hath  mortal  name,  where  God  alone 
Speaks  to  the  mighty  waste,  and  through  its  heart 

is  known  ? 

VII. 

Is  it  not  much  that  I  may  worship  Him, 
With  naught  my  spirit's  breathings  to  control. 
And  feel  His  presence  in  the  vast  and  dim, 
And  whispery  woods,  where  dying  thunders  roll 
From  the  far  cataracts? — Shall  I  not  rejoice 
That  I  have  learn'd  at  last  to  know  //(.-.•  voice 
From  man's? — I  will  rejoice! — my  soaring  soul 
Now  hath  redeem'd  her  birth-right  of  the  day. 
And  won,  through  clouds,  to  Him,  her  own  unfet- 
ter'd  way  I 

VIII. 

And  thou,  my  boy!  that  silent  at  my  knee 
Dost  lift  to  mine  thy  soft,  dark,  earnest  eyes, 
Fill'd  with  the  love  of  childhood,  which  I  see 
Pure  through  its  depths,  a  thing  without  disguise, 
Thou  that  hast  breath'd  in  slumber  on  my  breast, 
When  I  have  check'd  its  throbs  to  give  thee  re*t, 
Mine  own !  whose  young  thoughts  fresh  before 

me  rise! 

Is  it  not  much  that  I  may  guide  thy  prayer. 
And  circle  thy  glad  soul  with  free  and  healthful  air? 

IX. 

Why  should  I  weep  on  thy  bright  head,  my  boy  7 
Within  thy  .father's  halls  thou  wilt  not  dwell. 
Nor  lift  the'ir  banner,  with  a  warrior's  joy, 
Amidst  the  sons  of  mountain  chiefs,  who  fell 
For  Spain  of  old. — Yet  what  if  rolling  waves 
Have  borne  us  far  from  our  ancestral  graves  1 
Thou  shall  not  feel  thy  bursting  heart  rebel, 
As  mine  hath  done ;  nor  bear  what  I  have  borne, 
Casting  in  falsehood's  mould  th'  indignant  brow 
of  scorn. 

(277) 


278 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


X. 

This  shall  not  be  thy  lot,  my  blessed  child! 
I  have  not  sorrow'd,  struggled,  lived  in  vain—- 
Hear me!  magnificent  and  ancient  wild; 
And  mighty  rivers,  ye  that  meet  the  main, 
As  deep  meets  deep;  and  forests,  whose  dim 

snide 

The  flood's  voice,  and  the  wind's,  by  swells  per- 
vade; 

Hear  me ! — 't  is  well  to  die  and  not  complain, 
Yet  there  are  hours  when  the  charged  heart  must 

speak, 
Ev'n  in  the  desert's  ear  to  pour  itself,  or  break  1 

11 

I  see  an  oak  before  me,  (3)  it  had  been 

The  crown'd  one  of  the  woods  ;  and  might  have 

flung 

Its  hundred  arms  to  Heaven,  still  freshly  green, 
But  a  wild  vine  around  the  stem  hath  clung. 
From  branch  to  branch  close  wreaths  of  bondage 

throwing, 

Till  the  proud  tree,  before  no  tempest  bowing, 
Hath  shrunk  and  died,  those  serpent  folds  among. 
Alas!  alas! — what  is  it  that  I  see? 
An  image  of  man's  mind,  land  of  my  sires,  with 

theel 

XIL 

Yet  art  thou  lovely !— Song  is  on  thy  hills — 
Oh  sweet  and  mournful  melodies  of  Spain, 
That  lull'd  my  boyhood,  how  your  memory 

thrills 

The  exile's  heart  with  sudden-wakening  pain  !— 
Your  sounds  are  on  the  rocks — that  I  might  hear 
Once  more  the  music  of  the  mountaineer  1 — 
And  from  the  sunny  vales  the  shepherd's  strain 
Floats  out,  and  fills  the  solitary  place 
With  the  old  tuneful  names  of  Spain's  heroic  race. 

XIII. 

But  there  was  silence  one  bright,  golden  day, 
Through  my  own  pine-bung  mountains.    Clear, 

yet  lone, 

In  the  rich  autumn  light  the  vineyards  lay, 
And  from  the  fields  the  peasant's  voice  was  gone; 
And  the  red  grapes  untrodden  strew'd  the  ground. 
And  the  free  flocks  un tended  roaiu'd  around: 
Where  was  the  pastor  ? — where  the  pipe's  wild 

tone? 

Music  and  mirth  were  hush'd  the  hills  among. 
While  to  the  city's  gates  each  hamlet  poui'd  its 

throng. 

XIV. 

Silence  upon  the  mountains!— But  within 

The  city's  gates  a  rush— a  press— a  swell 

Of  multitudes  their  torrent  way  to  win  ; 

And  heavy  boomings  of  a  dull  deep  bell, 

A  dead  pause  following  each— like  that  which 

parts 

The  dash  of  billows,  holding  breathless  hearts 
Fast  in  the  hush  of  fear— knell  after  knell; 
And  sounds  of  thickening  steps,  like  thunder- 
rain, 
That  plashes  on  the  roof  of  some  vast  echoing  fane! 

XV. 

What  pageant's  hour  approach'd  ?— The  sullen 

gate 

Of  a  strong  ancient  prison-house  was  thrown 
Back  to  the  day.     And  who,  in  mournful  state, 
Came  forth,  led  slowly  o'er  its  threshold  stone 
They  that  had  learn'd,  in  cells  of  secret  gloom, 
How  sunshine  is  forgotten  !— They,  to  whom 
The  verj  features  of  mankind  were  grown 
Things  tnat  bewilder'dl— O'ertheirdazzled  sight 
rtiey  lifted  their  wan  bands,  and  cower'd  before 

the  light! 


XVI. 

To  this  man  brings  his  brother  I— Some  were 

there, 

Who  with  their  desolation  had  entwined 
Fierce  strength,  and  girt  the  sternness  of  despair 
Fast  round  their  bosoms,  ev'n  as  warriors  bind 
The  b~ast. plate  on  for  fight:  but  brow  and  cheek 
Seem  J  theirs  a  torturing  panoply  to  speak  ! 
And  there  were  some,  from  whom  the  very  mind 
Had  been  wrung  out :  they  smiled— oh  1  startling 

smile, 
Whence  man's  high  soul  is  fled! — where  doth  it 

sleep  the  while  ? 

XVII. 

But  onward  moved  the  melancholy  train, 
For  their  false  creeds  in  fiery  pangs  to  die. 
This  was  the  solemn  sacrifice  of  Spain — 
Heaven's  offering  from  the  land  of  chivalry! 
Through  thousands,  thousands  of  their  race  they 

moved 

— Oh!  how  unlike  all  others! — the  beloved, 
The  free,  the  proud,  the  beautiful!  whose  eye 
Grew  fix'd  before  them,  while  a  people's  breath 
Washush'd.and  its  one  soul  bound  in  the  thought 

of  death ! 

XVIII. 

It  might  be  that  amidst  the  countless  throng. 
There'  swell'd  some  heart,  with  pity's  weight  op- 

press'd — 

For  the  wide  stream  of  human  love  is  strong  , 
And  woman,  on  whose  fond  and  faithful  breast 
Childhood  is  rear'd,  and  at  whose  knee  the  sigh 
Of  its  first  prayer  is  breathed,  she,  too,  was  nigh. 
But  life  is  dear,  and  the  free  footstep  bless'd, 
And  home  a  sunny  place,  where  each  may  fill 
Some  eye  with  glistening  smiles, — and  therefore  all 

were  still— 

XIX. 

All  still— youth,  courage,  strength!— a  winter 

laid. 

A  chain  of  palsy,  cast  on  might  and  mind! 
Still,  as  at  noon  a  southern  forest's  shade. 
They  stood,  those  breathless  masses  of  mankind; 
Still,  as  a  frozen  torrent ! — but  the  wave 
Soon  leaps  to  foaming  freedom — they,  the  brave. 
Endured — they  saw  the  martyr's  place  assign'd 
In  the  red  flames— whence  is  the  withering  spel' 
That  numbs  each  human  pulse  ? — they  saw,  and 

thought  it  well. 

XX. 

And  I,  too,  thought  it  well!  That  very  morn 
From  a  far  land  I  came,  yet  round  me  clung 
The  spirit  of  my  own.    No  band  had  torn 
With  a  strong  grasp  away  the  veil  which  hung 
Between  mine  eyes  and  truth.     I  gazed,  I  saw. 
Dimly,  as  through  a  glass.    In  silent  awe 
I  watcn'd  the  fearful  rites ;  and  if  there  sprung 
One  rebel  feeling  from  its  deep  founts  up. 
Shuddering,  I  flung  it  back  as  guilt's  own  poison- 
cup. 

XXI. 

But  I  was  waken'd  as  the  dreamers  waken, 
Whom  the  shrill  trumpet  and  the  shriek  of  dread 
Rouse  up  a*  midnight,  when  their  walls  ere  ta- 
ken, 

And  they  must  battle  til)  their  blood  is  shed 
On  their  own  threshold  floor.  A  path  for  light 
Through  my  torn  breast  was  shatter'd  by  the 

might 

Of  the  swift  thunder-stroke — and  Freedom's  tread 
Came  in  through  ruins,  late,  yet  not  in  vain. 
Making  the  blighted  place  all  green  with  life  again. 

XXII. 

Still  darkly,  slowly,  as  a  sullen  mass 
Of  cloud  o'ersweeping,  without  wind,  the  skjr. 
Dream-like  I  saw  the  sad  procession  pass. 
And  mark'd  its  victims  with  a  tearless  eye. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


279 


They  moved  before  me  hut  a?  pictures,  wrought 
Each  to  reveal  some  secret  of  man's  thought, 
On  the  sharp  edge  of  sad  mortality, 
Till  in  his  place  came  one— oh!  could  it  be.? 
—My  friend,  my  heart's  first  friend!— and  did  I 

gaze  on  thee  1  , 

XXIII. 

On  thec!  with  whom  in  boyhood  T  had  play'd, 
At  the  grape-gatherings,  by  my  native  streams; 
And  to  whose  eye  my  youthful  soul  had  laid 
Bare,  as  to  Heaven's,  its  glowing  world  ofdreams; 
And  by  whose  side  'midst  warriors  I  had  stood, 
And   in  whose  helm  was  brought— oh!  earn'd 

with  blood!— 

The  fresh  wave  to  ray  lips,  when  tropic  beams 
Smoto  on  my  feve.-'d  brow! — Ay,  years  had  pass'd, 
Severing  our  paths,  jrave  friend  !  and  th.ua  we  met 

at  last! 

XXIV. 

I  sec  it  still— the  lofty  mien  thou  borest — 
On  thy  pale  forehead  sat  a  sense  of  power! 
Thb  very  look  that  once  thou  brightly  worest 
Cheering  me  onward  through  a  fearful  hour. 
When  we  were  girt  by  Indian  bow  and  spear, 
'Midst  the  white  Andes — ev'n  as  mountain  dee 
Kamm'd  in  our  camp — but  through  the  javelin 

shower 

We  rent  our  way,  a  tempest  of  despair! 
—And  thou — hudst  thou  but  died  with  thy  true 

brethren  there ! 

XXV. 

I  rail  the  fond  wish  back— for  thou  h<tst  perish'd 
More  nobly  far,  my  Alvar! — making  known 
The  might  of  truth ;  (4)  and  be  thy  memory  cher- 

Hh'd 
With  theirs,  the  thousands,  that  around  her 

throne 
Have  pour'd  their  lives  out  smiling,  in  that 

doom 

Finding  a  triumph,  if  denied  a  tomb! 
—Ay.  with  their  ashes  hath  the  wind  been  sown. 
And  with  the  wind  their  spirit  shall  be  spread, 
Filling  man's  heart  and  home  with  records. of  the 

dead. 

XXVI. 

Thou  Searcher  of  the  Soul!  in  whose  dread  sight 
Not  the  bold  guilt  alone,  that  mocks  the  skies, 
Hut  the  scarce  own'd,  unwhisper'd  thought  of 

night, 

As  a  thing  written  with  the  sunbeam  lies ; 
Thou,  knovv'st — whose  eye  through  shade  and 

depth  can  see, 

That  this  man's  crime  was  but  to  worship  thee, 
Like  those  that  made  their  hearts  thy  sacrifice, 
The  call'd  of  yore  ;  wont  by  the  Saviour's  side, 
On  the  dim  Olive-Mount  to  pray  at  eventide. 

XXVII. 

For  the  strong  spirit  will  at  times  awake. 
Piercing  the  mists  that  wrap  her  clay-abode  ; 
And,  born  of  thee,  she  may  not  always  take 
Earth's  accents  for  the  oracles  of  God  ; 
And  ev'n  for  this — O  dust,  whose  mask  is  power  1 
Reed,  that  wouldst  be  a  scourge  thy  little  hourl 
Spark,  whereon  yet  the  mighty  hath  not  trod, 
And  therefore  thou  destroyest!  —  where  were 

flown 
inr  hope,  if  man  were  left  to  man's  decree  alone? 

XXVIII. 

But  this  I  felt  not  yet.    I  could  but  gaze 
On  him,  my  friend;  while  that  swift  moment 

threw 

A  sudden  freshness  back  on  vanish' d  days, 
Like  water-drops  on  some  dim  picture's  hue  ; 
Calling  the  proud  time  up,  when  first  I  stood 
Where   banners  floated,  and  my  heart's  quick 

blood 

Sprang  to  a  torrent  as  the  clarion  blew, 
And  he— his  sword  was  like  a  brother's  worn, 
That  watches  through  the  field  his  mother's  young- 
est born. 


XXIX. 

But  a  lance  met  me  in  that  day's  career. 
Senseless  I  lay  amidst  th'  o'ersweeping  fight, 
Wakening  at  last— how  full,  how  strangely  clew, 
That  scene  on  memory  flash'd!— the  shivery  light. 
Moonlight,   on    broken    shields — the    plain    of 

slaughter, 

The  fountain  side — the  low  sweet  sound  of  water. 
And  Alvar  bending  o'er  me — from  the  night 
Covering  me  with  his  mantle  ! — all  the  past 
Fluw'd  back — my  soul's  far  chords  all  answer'd  to 

the  blast. 

XXX. 

Till,  in  that  rush  of  visions,  I  became 
As  one  that,  by  the  bands  of  slumber  wound. 
Lies  with  a  powerless,  but  all-thrilling  frame, 
Intense  in  consciousness  of  sight  and  sound, 
Yet  buried  in  a  wintering  dream  which  brings 
Loved  faces  round  him,  girt  with  fearful  things  1 
Troubled  ev'n  thus  I  stood,  but  chain'd  and  bound 
On  that  familiar  form  mine  eye  to  keep— 
—Alas!  I  might  not  fall  upon  his  neck  and  weep! 

XXXI. 

He  pass'd  me— and  what  next  1—1  look'd  on  two. 
Following  his  footsteps  to  the  same  dread  place. 
For  the  same  guilt— his  sisters!  (5)— Well  I  knew 
The  beauty  on  those  brows,  though  each  young 

face 
Was  changed— so  deeply  changed !— a  dungeon'i 

air 

Is  hard  for  loved  and  lovely  things  to  bear. 
And  ye,  O  daughters  of  a  lofty  race. 
Queen-like  Theresa!  radiant  Inez!— flowers 
So  cherish'd!  were  ye  then  but  rear'd  for   thow 

dark  hours? 

XXXII. 

A  mournful  home,  young  sisters !  had  ye  left. 
With  your  lutes  hanging  hnsh'd  upon  the  wall. 
And  silence  round  the  aged  man,  bereft 
Of  each  glad  voice,  once  answering  to  his  call. 
Alas,  that  lonely  father!  doonfd  to  pine 
For  sounds  d<  parted  in  his  life's  decline, 
And,  'midst  the  shadowing  banners  of  his  hall. 
With  bis  white  hair  to  sit,  and  deem  the  name 
A  hundred  chiefs  had  borne,  cast  down  by  you  to 
shame  1  (ti) 

XXXIII. 

And  woe  for  you, 'midst  looks  and  words  of  love. 
And  gentle  hearts  and  faces,  nursed  so  long! 
How  had  I  seen  you  in  your  beauty  move. 
Wearing  the  wreath,  and  listening  to  the  song 
— Yet  sat,  ev'n  then,  what  seem'd  the  crowd  to 

shun. 

Half  veiled  upon  tho  clear  pale  brow  of  one. 
And  deeper  thoughts  than  oft  to  youth  belong. 
Thoughts,  such  as  wake  to  evening's  whispery 

sway, 
Within  the  drooping  shade  of  her  sweet  eyelids  lay 

XXXIV. 

And  if  she  mingled  with  the  festive  train, 
It  was  but  as  a  melancholy  star 
Beholds  the  dance  of  shepherds  on  ttte  plain. 
In  its  bright  stillness  present,  though  afar. 
Yet  would  she  smile— and   that,  too,  hath  iU 

smile — 

Circled  with  joy  whicU  reach'd  her  not  the  while 
And  bearing  a  lone  spirit,  not  at  war 
With  earthly  things,  but  o'er  their  form  and  hue 
Shedding  loo  clear  a  light,  too  sorrowfully  true. 

XXXV. 

But  the  dark  hours  wring  forth  the  hidden  migbi 
Which  hath  lain  bedded  in  the  silent  soul. 
A  treasure  all  undreamt  of; — as  the  night 
Calls  out  the  harmonies  of  streams  that  roll 
Unheard  by  day.     It  seem'd  as  if  her  breast 
Had  hoarded  energies,  till  then  suppress'd 
Almost  with  pain,  and  bursting  from  control. 


280 


HEAIANS'  POETICAL  WOHKS. 


And  finding  first  that  hour  their  pathway  free: 
Could  a  rose  brave  the  storm,  such  might  her  em- 
blem be. 

XXXVI. 

For  the  soft  gloom  whose  shadow  still  had  hung 
On  her  fair  brow,  beneath  its  garlands  worn, 
Was  fled;  and  fire,  like  prophecy's,  had  sprung, 
Clear  to  her  kindled  eye.     It  might  be  sci.rn — 
Pride — sense  of  wrong — ay,  the   frail   heart  is 

bound 

By  these  at  times,  ev'n  as  with  adamant  around, 
Kept  so  from  brnakinj; ! — yet  not  thus  upltonie 
She   moved,  though  some  sustaining  passion's 

wave 
Lifted  her  fervent  soul— a  sister  for  the  brave  1 

XXXVII. 

i    And  yet,  alas  !  to  see  the  strength  which  clings 
1    Round  woman  in  such  hours! — a  mournful  sight. 
Though  lovely  !— an  o'erflowing  of  the  springs, 
The  full  springs  of  affection,  deep  as  bright  I 
And  she,  because  her  lifa  is  ever  twined 
With  other  lives,  and  by  no  stormy  wind 
May  thence  be  shaken,  and  because  the  light 
Of  tenderness  is  round  her,  and  her  eye 
Doth  weep  such  passionate  tears — therefore  she 
thus  can  die. 

XXXVHI. 

Therefore  didst  thou,  through  that  heart-shaking 

scene, 

As  through  a  triumph  move  ;  and  cast  aside 
Thine  own  sweet  thoughtfulness  for  victory's 

mien, 

O  fairhful  sister !  cheering  thus  the  guide. 
And  friend,  and  brother  of  thy  sninted  youth, 
Whose  hand  had  led  thee  to  the  source  of  truth, 
Where  thy  glad  soul  from  earth  was  purified; 
Nor  wouldst  thou,  following  him  through  all  the 

past. 
That  he  should  see  thy  step  grow  tremulous  at  last 

XXXIX. 

For  thou  hast  made  no  deeper  love  a  guest 
'Midst    thy    young  spirit's  dreams,    than    that 

which  grows 

Between  the  nurtured  of  the  same  fond  breast. 
The  shelter'd  of  one  roof;  and  thus  it  rose 
Twined  in  with  life.— How  is  it,  that  the  hours 
Of  the  same  sport,  the  gathering  early  flowers 
Round  the  same  tree,  the  sharing  one  repose, 
And  mingling  one  first  prayer  in  murmurs  soft, 
Prom  the  heart's  memory  fade,  in  this  world's 

breath,  so  oft  ? 

XL. 
But  thee  that  breath  had  touch'd  not ;  thee,  nor 

him. 
The  true  in  all  things  found !— and  thou  wert 

blest 

Ev'n  then,  that  no  remember'd  change  could  dim 
The  perfect  image  of  affection,  press'd 
Like  armour  to  thy  bosom !— thou  hadst  kept 
Watch  by  that  brother's  couch  of  pain,  and 

wept, 

Thy  sweet  face  covering  with  thy  robe,  when  rest 

Fled  from  the  sufferer ;  thou  hadst  bound  his  faith 

Upon  thy  soul — one  light,  one  hope  ye  chose— one 

death. 

XLI. 

8ft  dMst  thou  pass  on  brightly  !— but  for  her, 
Next  in  that  path,  how  may  her  doom  be  spoken  1 
— All-merciful  1  to  think  that  such  things  were, 
And  are,  and  seen  by  men  with  hearts  unbroken ! 
To  think  of  that  fair  girl,  whose  path  had  been 
So  strew'd  with  rose-leaves,  all  one  fairy  scene! 
And  whose  quick  glance  came  ever  as  a  token 
Of  hope  to  drooping  thought,  and  her  glad  voice 
As  a  free  bird's  in  spring,  that  makes  the  woods 

rejoice ! 

XLII. 

And  she  to  die ! — she  loved  the  laughing  earth 
With  such  deep  joy  in   its  fresh  leaves  and 

flowers  1 


— Was  not  her  smile  ev'n  as  the  sudden  birth 
Of  a  young  rainbow,  colouring  vernal  showeret 
Yes !  but  to  meet  her  fawn-like  step,  to  hear 
The  gushes  of  wild  song,  so  silvery  clear. 
Which,  oft  unconsciously,  in  happier  hours 
Fiow'd  from  her  lips,  was  to  forget  the  sway 
Of  Time  and  Death  below, — blight,  shadow,  dull 

decay. 

XLHI. 
Could  this  change  be?— the  hour,  the  scene, 

where  last 

[  saw  that  form,  came  floating  o'er  my  mind: 
—  A  golden  vintage-eve  ;— the  hi-ats  were  pass'd. 
And,  in  the  freshness  of  the  fanning  wind. 
Her  father  sat,  where  gleam'd  the  first  faint  star 
Through  the  lime-boughs;   and  with  her  light 

guitar, 

She,  on  the  greensward  at  his  feet  reclined, 
In  his  calm  face  laugh'd  up;  some  shepherd-lay 
Singing,  as  childhood  sings  on  the  lone  hills  at  play. 

XLIV. 

And  now — oh  God  !— the  bitter  fear  of  death, 
The  sore  amaze,  the  faint  o'ershadowing  dread, 
Had  grasp'd  her! — panting  in  her  quick -drawn 

breath, 

And  in  her  white  lips  quivering; — onward  led. 
She  look'd  up  with  her  dim  bewildrr'd  eyes, 
And  there  smiled  out  herown  soft  brilliant  skies. 
Far  in  their  sultry  southern  azure  spread, 
Glowing  with  joy,  but  silent  1 — still  they  smiled, 
V^et  sent  down  no  reprieve  for  earth's  poor  trem- 
bling child. 

XLV. 

Alas  !— that  earth  had  all  too  strong  a  hold, 
Too  fast,  sweet  Inez!  on  thy  heart,  whose  bloom 
Was  given  to  early  love,  nor  know  how  cold 
The  hours  which  follow.    There  was  one.  with 

whom, 

Young  as  thou  wert,  and  gentle,  and  untried, 
Thou  might'st,  perchance,  unshrinkingly  have 

died ; 

But  he  was  far  away ; — and  with  tliv  doom 
Thus  gathering,  life  grew  so  intensely  dear. 
That  all  thy  slight  frame  shook  with  ils  cold  mor- 
tal fear ! 

XLVI. 

No  aid!— thou  too  didst  pass!— and  all  had  pass'd. 
The  fearful— and  the  desperate— and  the  strong) 
Some  like  the  bark  that  rushes  with  the  blast, 
Some  like  the  leaf  swept  shiveringly  along, 
And  some  as  men  that  have  but  one  more  field 
To  fight,  and  then  may  slumber  on  their  shield. 
Therefore  they  arm  in  hope.  But  now  the  throng 
RolI'd  on.  and  bore  me  with  their  living  tide, 
Ev'n  as  a  bark  wherein  is  left  no  power  to  guide. 

XLVI1. 
Wave  swept  on  wave.    We  reach'd  a  stately 

square, 

Deck'd  for  the  rites.     An  altar  stood  on  high, 
And  gorgeous,  in  the  midst,  a  place  for  prayer. 
And  praise,  and  offering.  Could  the  earth  supply 
No  fruits,  no  flowers  for  sacrifice,  of  all 
Which  on  her  sunny  lap  unheeded  fall? 
No  fair  young  firstling  of  the  flock  to  die, 
As  when  before  their  God  the  Patriarchs  stood? 
—Look  down  !  man  brings  thee.  Heaven  t  his  bro- 
ther's guiltless  blood  t 

XLVIII 

Hear  its  voice,  hear! — a  cry  goes  up  to  thee. 
From  the  stain'd  sod  ;— make  thou  thy  judgment 

known 

On  him,  the  shedder! — let  his  portion  be 
The  fear  that  walks  at  midnight— give  the  moan 
In  the  wind  haunting  him  a  power  to  say, 
"  Where  is  thy  brother  ?"— and  the  stars  a  ray 
To  search  and  shake  his  spirit,  when  alone, 
With  the  dread  splendour  of  their  burning  eyes 
—So  shall  earth  own  thy  will— mercy,  not  sacri  fice . 

XLIX. 
Sounds  of  triumphant  praise! — the  mass  was 

sung — 
—Voices  that  die  not  might  have  pour'd  such 

itrainn! 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


281 


Through  Salem's  towers  might  that  proud  chant 

have  rung. 

When  the  Must  High,  on  Syria's  palmy  plains, 
Had  quell'd  hei  foes ! — so  full  it  swept,  a  sea 
Of  loud  wavijs  jubilant,  and  rolling  free  ! 
Oft,  when  the  wind, as  through  resounding  fanes, 
Hath  fill  (I  the  r.hural  forests  with  its  power, 
Home  Jeep  tone  brings  me  back  the  irusic  of  that 

hour. 

L. 

It  died  away;— the  incense-cloud  was  driven 
Before  the  breeze — the  words  of  doom  were  said; 
And  the  sun  faded  mournfully  from  heaven, 
— He  faded  mournfully  1  and  dimly  red. 
Paniii!:  in  clouds  from  those  that  look'd  theii 

last, 
And  sigh'd — "  Farewell,  thou  sun  1" — Eve  glow'd 

and  passM — 
Night — midnight  and  the  moon — came  forth  and 

shed 

Sleep,  even  as  dew,  on  glen,  wood,  peopled  spot— 
Cave  one — a  place  of  death— and  there  men  slum 

ber'd  not. 

LI. 

Twas  not  within  the  city  (7)— but  in  sight 
Of  the  snow-crown'd  sierras,  freely  sweeping, 
With  many  an  eagle's  eyrie  on  the  height, 
And  hunter's  cabin,  by  the  torrent  peeping 
Far  off:  and  vales  between,  and  vineyards  lay. 
With  sound  ;.inl  gleam  of  waters  on  their  way. 
And  cheMnuC-woods,  that  girt  the  happy  sleeping. 
In  many  a  ixMsant's  home!— The  midnight  sky 
Brought  softly  tnat  rich  world  round  those  who 
came  to  nib. 

HI. 

The  darkly-gJorittuv'  midnight  sky  of  Spain, 
Burning  with  Bt&r&l — What   had   the   torches' 

glare 

To  do  beneath  that  tei.iple,  and  profane 
Its  holy  radiance  * — Bv  l)i"ir  wavering  flare, 
1  «aw  beoide  the  pyres—  I  see  thee  now, 
u  bright  Theresa !  wilu  thy  lifted  brow, 
And  thy  clasp'd  hands,  and  dark  eyes  fill'd  with 

prayer  ! 

And  thee,  sad  Inez!  bowing  thy  fair  head, 
And  mantling  up  thy  face,  all  colourless  with  dread  I 

Lin. 

And  Alvar,  Alvar!— I  beheld  thee  too, 
Pale,  steadfast,  kingly,  till  thy  clear  glance  fell 
On  that  young  sister  ;  then  perturb'd  it  grew, 
And  all  thy  labouring  bosom  seern'd  to  swell 
With  painful  tenderness.    Why  came  I  there, 
That  troubled  image  of  my  friend  to  bear 
Thence,  for  my  after-years  ?— a  thing  to  dwell 
In  my  heart's  core,  and  on  the  darkness  rise, 
Disquieting  my  dreams  with  its  bright  mournful 
eyes! 

LIV. 

Why  came  I  ?  oh  I  the  heart's  deep  mystery  1— 

Why 

-?.  man's  last  hour  doth  vain  affection's  gaze 
Fix  itself  down  on  struggling  agony, 
To  the  dimm'd  eye-balls  freezing,  as  they  glaze? 
It  might  be— yet  the  power  to  will  seem'd  o'er— 
That  my  soul  yearn'd  to  hearhis  voice  once  more! 
But  mine  was  fetter'd — mute  in  strong  amaze, 
I  watch'd  his  features  as  the  night-wind  blew, 
And  torch-light  or  the  moon's  pass'd  o'er  their 

marble  hue. 

LV. 

The  trampling  of  a  steed  !— a  tall  white  steed, 
Sending  his  fiery  way  the  crowds  among — 
A  storm's  way  through  a  forest— came  at  speed, 
And  a  wild  voice  cried  "  Inez!"  Swift  she  flung 
The  mantle  from  her  face,  and  gazed  around. 
With  a  faint  shriek  at  that  familiar  sound, 
And  from  his  seat  a  breathless  rider  sprung, 
And  dash'd  off  fiercely  those  who  came  to  part, 
ana  rushM  to  ihat  pale  girl,  and  clasp'd  her  to  bia 
heart. 


LVL 

And  for  a  moment  all  around  gave  way 
To  that  full  burst  of  passion !— on  his  breast. 
Like  a  bird  panting  yet  from  fear  she  lay 
But  blest — in  misery's  very  lap — yet  blest! — 
Oh  love,  love,  strong  as  death ! — from  such  an 

hour 

Pressing  out  joy  by  thine  immortal  power. 
Holy  and  fervent  love!  hsd  earth  but  rest 
For  thee  and  thine,  this  world  were  all  too  fair! 
How  could  we  thence  be  wean'd  to  die  without 

despair  ? 

LVII. 

But  she — as  falls  a  willow  from  the  storm, 
O'er  its  own  river  streaming— thus  reclined 
On  the  youth's  bosom  hung  her  fragile  form, 
And  clasping  arms,  so  passionately  twined 
Around  his  neck — with  such  a  trusting  fold, 
A  full  deep  sense  of  safety  in  their  hold, 
As  if  naught  earthly  might  th*  embrace  unbind! 
Alas!  a  child's  fond  faith,  believing  still 
Its  mother's  breast  beyond  the  lightning's  reach 
to  kill  I 

LVIII. 

Brief  rest!  upon  the  turning  billow's  height, 
A  strange   sweet  moment  of  some    heavenly 

strain, 

Floating  between  the  savage  gusts  of  night, 
That  sweep  the  seas  to  foam!  Soon  dark  again 
The   hour— the    scene— tb'    intensely    present, 

rush'd 

Back  on  her  spirit,  and  her  large  tears  gush'd 
Like  blood-drops  from  a  victim  ;  with  swift  rain 
Bathing  the  bosom  where  she  lean'd  that  hour, 
As  if  her   life   would   melt  into  th'  o'erswelling 

shower. 

LIX. 

But  he,  whose  arm  sustain'd  her!— oh!  I  knew 
"Twas  vain,  and  yet  he  hoped! — he  fondly  strove 
Back  from  her  faith  her  sinking  soul  to  woo, 
As  life  might  yet  be  hers  !— A  dream  of  love 
Which  could  not  look  upon  so  fair  a  thing, 
Remembering  how  like  hope,  like  joy,  like  spring. 
Her  smile  was  wont  to  glance,  her  step  to  move, 
And  deem  that  men  indeed,  in  very  truth, 
Could  mean  the  sting  of  death  for  her  soft  flower, 
iug  youth. 

LX. 

He  woo'd  her  back  to  life.—"  Sweet  Inez,  live  ! 

My  blessed  Inez !— visions  have  beguiled 

Thy  heart— abjure  them  I— thou  wert  form'd  to 

give, 

And  to  find,  joy;  and  hath  not  sunshine  smiled 
Around  thee  ever?   Leave  me  not,  mine  own  1 
Or  earth  will  grow  too  dark  !— for  thee  alone, 
Thee  have  I  loved,  thou  gentlest !  from  a  child. 
And  borne  thy  image  with  me  o'er  the  sea, 
Thy  soft  voice  in  my  soul!— Speak!  Oh  I  yet  liv* 

for  me  I" 

LXI. 

She  look'd  up  wildly ;  there  were  anxious  eyes 
Waiting  that  look— sad  eyes  of  troubled  thought, 
Alvar's— Theresa's!— Did  her  childhood  ri«e. 
With  all  its  pure  and  home  affections  fraught. 
In  the  brief  glance?— She  clasp'd  her  hands— the 

strife 

Of  love,  faith,  fear,  and  that  vain  dream  of  life 
Within  her  woman's  breast  so  deeply  wrought, 
It  seem'd  as  if  a  reed  so  slight  and  weak 
Must  in  the  rending  storm  not  quiver  only— break  1 

LXII. 

And  thus  it  was— the  young  cheek  flush'd  and 

faded, 

As  the  swift  blood  in  currents  came  and  went. 
And  hues  of  death  the  marble  brow  o'ershaded. 
And  the  sunk  eye  a  watery  lustre  sent 


282 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Through  its  white  flittering  lids.    Then  trem- 
blings pass'd 

O'er  the  frail  form,  thit  shook  it,  as  the  blast 
Shakes  the  sere  leaf,  until  the  spirit  rent 
Its  way  to  peace— the  fearful  way  unknown- 
Pale  in  love's  arms  she  lay— she  I — what  had  loved 
was  gone  I 

LXIII. 

Joy  for  thee,  trembler! — thou  redeem'd  one,  joy  I 
Young  dove  set  free  I  earth,  ashes,  soulless  clay, 
Remain'd  for  baffled  vengeance  to  destroy ; 
— Thy  chain  was  riven! — nor  hadst  thou  cast 

away 
Thy  hope  in  thy  last  hour !— though  love  was 

there 

Striving  to  wring  thy  troubled  soul  from  prayer, 
And  life  seem'd  robed  in  beautiful  array. 
Too  fair  to  leave!— but  this  might  be  forgiven, 
Thou  wert  so  richly  crown'd  with  precious  gifts  of 

Heaven. 

LXIV. 

But  woe  for  him  who  felt  the  heart  grow  still, 
Which,  with  its  weight  of  agony,  had  lain 
Breaking  on  his! — Scarce  could  the  mortal  chill 
Of  the  hush'd  bosom,  ne'er  to  heave  again, 
And  all  the  silence  curdling  round  the  eye, 
Bring  home  the  stern  belief  that  she  could  die, 
That  she  indeed  could  die  ! — for  wild  and  vain 
As  hope  might  be— his  soul  had  hoped— 't  was 

o'er — 
Slowly  his  falling  arms  dropp'd  from  the  fore?  they 

bore: 

LXV. 

They  forced  him  from  that  spot. — It  might  be  well, 
That  the  fierce,  reckless  words  by  anguish  wrung 
From  his  torn  breast,  all  aimless  as  they  fell. 
Like  spray-drops  from    the   strife  of  torrent* 

flung. 
Were  mark'd  as  guilt.— There  are,  who  no* 

these  things 

Against  the  smitten  heart ;  its  breaking  stringg 
—On  whose  low  thrills  once  gentle  music  hung— 
With  a  rude  hand  of  touch  unholy  trying' 
And  numbering  them  as  crimes,  the  deep,  strange 
tones  replying. 

LXVI. 

But  ye  in  solemn  joy,  O  faithful  pair ! 
Stood  gazing  on  your  parted  sister's  dust ; 
I  saw  your  features  by  the  torch's  glare, 
And  they  were  brightening  with  a  heavenward 

trust! 

I  saw  the  doubt,  the  anguish,  the  dismay, 
Melt  from  my  Alvar's  glorious  mien  away : 
And  peace  was  there— the  calmness  of  the  just . 
And,  bending  down  the  slumberer's  brow  to  kiss, 
"Thy  rest  is  won,"  he  said;— "sweet  sister!  praise 
for  this !" 

LXVII. 

I  started  as  from  sleep;— yes,  he  had  spoken— 
A  breeze  had  troubled  memory's  hidden  source 
At  once  the  torpor  of  my  soul  was  broken — 
Thought,  feeling,  passion,  woke  in  tenfold  force 
—  There  are  soft  breathings  in  the  southern  wind 
Ttint  so  your  ice-chains,  O  ye  streams!  unbind 
And  free  the  foaming  swiftness  of  your  course 
—1  burst  from  those  that  held  me  back,  a,"-*  "•" 
3'cn  on  his  neck,  and  cried— "  Friend,  brother 
fare  thee  well !" 

LXVIII. 

Did  fit  not  say  "  Farewell  ?"— Alas  !  no  breath    . 
C'auii:  to  mine  ear.    Hoarse  murmurs  from  the  > 

throng 

Told  that  the  mysteries  in  the  face  of  death 
Had  from  their  eager  sight  been  veil'd  too  long.  ' 
And  we  were  parted  as  the  surge  might  part        i 
Those  that  would  die  together,  true  of  heart.        i 
—Hia  hour  was  come  —  but  in  mine  anguish 

strong, 

Like  a  fierce  swimmer  through  the  midnight  sea, 
Blindly  I  rush'd  away  from  that  which  was  to  be. 


LXtX. 

Away — away  I  rush'd  ! — but  swift  and  high 
The  arrowy  pillars  of  the  firelight  grew, 
Till  the  transparent  darkness  of  the  sky 
F'"isli'd  to  a  blood-red  mantle  in  their  hue; 
Ami   ohantom-like,  the  kindling  city  seem  d 
To  »,nead,  float,  wave,  as  on  the  wind  they 

stream'd, 

With  their  wild  splendour  chasing  me  !— I  knew 

The  death-work  was  begun — I  veil'd  mine  eyes, 

Vet  stopp'd  in  spell-bound  fear  to  catch  the  victims' 

cries. 

LXX. 

What  heard  I  then  ?— a  ringing  shriek  of  pain, 
Such  as  for  ever  haunts  the  tortured  ear? 
I  heard  a  sweet  and  solemn-breathing  strain 
Piercing  the  flames,  untremulous  and  clear! 
— The  rich,  triumphal  tones! — I  knew  them  well. 
As  they  came  floating  with  a  breezy  swell! 
Man'* "voice  was  there— a  clarion  voice  to  cheer 
In  me  mid-battle— ay,  to  turn  the  flying- 
Woman's— that  might  have  sung  of  Heaven  beside 

the  dying! 

LXXI 

It  was  a  fearful,  yet  a  glorious  thing. 
To  hear  that  hymn  of  martyrdom,  and  know 
That  its  glad  stream  of  melody  could  spring 
Up  from  th'  unsounded  gulfs  of  human  woe! 
Alvar!  Theresa! — what  is  deep?  what  strong? 
God's  breath  within  the  soul !— It  fill'd  that  song 
From  your  victorious  voices! — but  the  glow 
On  »;.e  tot  air  and  lurid  skies  increased — 
Faint  grew  the  sounds — more  faint — I  listen'd — 

they  had  ceased ! 

LXXII. 

And  thou  indeed  hadst  perish'd,  my  soul's  friend  t 
I  might  form  other  ties — but  thou  alone 
Couldst  with,a  glance  the  veil  of  dimness  rend, 
By  other  years  o'er  boyhood's  memory  thrown  ! 
Others  might  aid  me  onward: — Thou  and  1 
Hsrt  mingled  the  fresh  thoughts  that  early  die, 
Once  flowering— never  more!— And  thou  wert 

gone! 

W>v>  'fluid  give  back  my  youth,  my  spirit  free, 
\ji  be  in  aught  again  what  thou  hadst  been  to  me? 

LXXIII. 

And  yet  I  wept  thee  not,  thou  true  and  brave  ! 
I  could  not  weep!— there  gather'd  round  thy 

name 

Too  deep  a  passion !— thou  denied  a  grave  ! 
Thou,  with  the  blight  flung  on  thy  soldier's  famel 
Had  I  not  known  thy  heart  from  childhood'! 

time? 
Thr  isart  of  hearts  ?— and  couldst  thou  die  for 

crime  ? 

— No !  had  all  earth  decreed  that  death  of  shame, 
I  would  have  set,  against  all  earth's  decree, 
Th'  iin  alienable  trust  of  my  firm  soul  in  thee! 

LXXIV. 

There  are  swift  hours  in  life— strong,  rushing 

hours, 

That  do  the  work  of  tempests  in  their  might ! 
They  shake  down  things  that  stood  as  rocks  and 

towers, 

Unto  th'  undoubting  mind  ; — they  pour  in  light 
«V.?>,.^  it  but  startles — like  a  burst  of  day 
For  which  th'  uprooting  of  an  oak  makes  way; — 
They  sweep  the  colouring  mists  from  off  our  sight, 
They  touch  with  fire  thought's  graven  page,  the 

rol 
Siamp'ii  with  past  years— and  lo !  it  shrivels  as  • 

scroll. 

LXXV. 

And  this  was  of  such  hours ! — the  sudden  flow 
Of  my  soul's  tide  seem'd  whelming  ine:  the  glare 
r>f^r  ,vV  flames,  yet  rocking  to  and  fro, 
dcorcnd  up  my  heart  with  breathless  thirst  for 
air 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


28.'5 


And  solitude,  and  freedom.    It  had  been 
Well  with  me  then,  in  some  vast  desert  scene, 
To  pour  my  voice  out.  for  the  winds  to  bear 
On  with  them,  wildly  questioning  the  sky. 
Fiercely  th'  untroubled  stars,  of  man's  dim  destiny. 

LXXVI. 

I  would  have  call'd,  adjuring  the  dark  cloud  ; 
To  the  most  ancient  Heavens  I  would  have  said 
— "  Speak  to  me  1  show  me  truthl"  (8) — through 

night  aloud 

I  would  have  cried  to  him,  the  newly  dead, 
"  Come  back !  and  show  me  truth !"— My  spirit 

seem'd 

Gasping  for  some  free  burst,  its  darkness  teem'd 
Wi  th  such  pent  storms  of  thought ! — again  I  fled — 
I  fled,  a  refuge  from  man's  face  to  gain, 
Scarce  conscious  when  I  paused,  entering  a  lonely 

fane. 

LXXVI  I. 

A  mighty  minster,  dim,  and  proud,  and  vast! 
Silence  was  round  the  sleepers,  whom  its  floor 
Shut  in  the  grave  ;  a  shadow  of  the  past, 
A  memory  of  the  sainted  steps  that  wore 
Erewhile  its  gorgeous  pavement,  seem'd  to  brood 
Like  mist  upon  the  stately  solitude, 
A  halo  of  sad  fame  to  mantle  o'er 
Its  white  sepulchral  forms  of  mail-clad  men. 
And  all  was  hush'd  as  night  in  some  deep  Alpine 

glen. 

LXXVIII. 
More  hush'd,  far  morel— for  there  the  wind 

sweeps  by, 

Or  the  woods  tremble  to  the  streams'  loud  play! 
Here  a  strange  echo  made  my  very  sigh 
Seem  for  the  place  too  much  a  sound  of  day! 
Too  much  my  footsteps  broke  the  moonlight, 

fading. 

Yet  arch  thro'  arch  in  one  soft  flow  pervading; 
And  I  stood  still : — prayer,  chant,  had  died  away, 
Yet  past  me  floated  a  funereal  breath 
Of  license. — I  stood  still — as  before  God  and  death 

LXXIX. 

For  thick  ye  girt  me  round,  ye  long-departed  I  (9) 
Dust — imaged  form — with  cross,  and  shield,  and 

crest ; 

It  seem'd  as  if  your  ashes  would  have  started, 
Had  a  wild  voice  burst  forth  above  your  rest ! 
Yet  ne'er,  perchance,  did  worshipper  of  yore 
Bear  to  your  thrilling  presence  what  /  bore 
Of  wrath  — doubt— anguish— battling  in  the 

breast ! 

I  could  have  pour'd  out  words,  on  that  pale  air. 
To  make  your  proud  tombs  ring : — no,  no  !  I  could 

not  there  I 

LXXX. 

Not  'midst  those  aisles,  through  which  a  thou 

sand  years 

Mutely  as  clouds  and  reverently  had  swept ; 
Not  by  those  shrines,  which  yet  the  trace  of  tears 
And  kneeling  votaries  on  their  marble  kept! 
Ye  were  too  mighty  in  your  pomp  of  gloom 
And  trophied  age,  O  temple,  altar,  tomb! 
And  you,  ye  dead  ! — for  in  that  faith  ye  slept. 
Whose  weight  had  grown  a  mountain's  on  my 

heart. 
Which  could  not  there  be  loosed. — I  turn'd  me  to 

depart. 

LXXXI. 

I  turn'd — what  glimmer'd  faintly  on  my  sight. 
Faintly,  yet  brightening,  as  a  wreath  of  snow 
Seen  thro'  dissolving  haze!— The  moon,  the  night, 
Had  waned,  and  dawn  poured  in ;  gray,  shadowy, 

slow. 

Yet  dayspring  still ! — a  solemn  hue  it  caught. 
Piercing  the  storied  windows,  darkly  fraught 
With  stoles  and  draperies  of  imperial  glow  ; 
And  soft  and  sad,  that  colouring  gleam  was 

thrown. 
Where,  pale,  a  pictured  f  jrm  above  the  altar  shone. 


1.XXXII. 

Thy  form,  thou  Son  of  God!— a  wrathful  deep. 
With  loam,  and  cloud,  and  tempest  round  tbaa 

spread, 

And  such  a  weight  of  night!— a  night,  when  sleep 
From  the  fierce  rocking  of  the  billows  fled. 
A  bark  show'd  dim  beyond  thee,  with  its  mast 
Bow'd,  and  its  rent  sail  shivering  to  the  blast; 
But  like  a  spirit  in  thy  gliding  tread, 
Thou,  as  o'er  glass,  didst  walk  that  storm"  sea 
Through  rushing  winds,  which  left  a  silent  path  foi 

thee  I 

LXXXIII. 

So  still  thy  white  robes  fell !— no  breath  of  aii 
Within  their  long  and  slumberous  folds  had  sway  i 
So  still  the  waves  of  parted,  shadowy  hair 
From  thy  clear  brow  flow'd  droopingly  away! 
Dark  were  the  heavens  above  thee,  Saviour  !— 

dark 

The  gull's,  Deliverer!  round  the  straining  bark 
But  thou  ! — o'er  all  thine  aspect  and  array 
Was  pour'd  one  stream  of  pale,  broad,  silvery 

light— 
Thou  wert  the  single  star  of  that  all-shrouding 

night ! 

LXXXIV. 
Aid   for  one   sinking!  — Thy  lone    brightness 

gleam'd 

On  his  wild  face,  just  lifted  o'er  the  wave, 
With  its  worn,  fearful,  human  look,  that  seem'd 
To  cry  thro'  surge  and  blast—"  I  perish— save !" 
Not  to  the  winds— not  vainly!— thou  wert  nigh. 
Thy  hand  was  stretch'd  to  fainting  agony. 
Even  in  the  portals  of  th'  unquiet  grave! 
O  thou  that  art  the  life  !  and  yet  didst  bear 
Too  much  of  mortal  woe  to  turn  from  mortal  prayer  I 

LXXXV. 

But  was  it  not  a  thing  to  rise  on  death. 
With  its  remember'd  lizht,  that  face  of  thine. 
Redeemer!  dimm'd  by  this  world's  misty  breath, 
Ypt  mournfully,  mysteriously  divine? 
— Oh !  that  calm,  sorrowful,  prophetic  eye. 
With  its  dark  depths  of  grief,  love,  majesty ! 
And  the  pale  glory  of  the  brow! — a  shrine 
Where  power  satveil'd,yet  shedding  softly  round 
What  told  that  thou  couldst  be  but  for  a  time  mi- 

crown'd ! 

LXXXVI. 

And  more  than  all,  the  Heaven  ol  that  sad  smile 
The  lip  of  mercy,  our  immortal  trust ! 
Did  not  that  look,  that  very  look,  erewhile. 
Pour  its  o'ershadow'd  beauty  on  the  dust  ? 
Wert  thou  not  such  when  earth's  dark  cloud 

hung  o'er  thee ! 
Surely  thou  wert !— my  heart  grew  hush'd  before 

thee, 

Sinking  with  all  its  passions,  as  the  gust 
Sank  at  thy  voice,  along  its  billowy  way: 
—What  had  I  there  to  do,  but  kneel,  and  weep, 

and  pray  1 

LXXX  VII. 

Amidst  the  stillness  rose  my  spirit's  cry, 
Amidst  the  dead— "But  that  full  cup  of  woe, 
Press'd  from  the  fruitage  of  mortality. 
Saviour!— for  thee— give  light!  that  I  may  know 
If  by  thy  will,  in  thine  all-healing  name. 
Men  cast  down  human  hearts  to  blighting  shame. 
And  early  death— and  say,  if  this  be  so, 
Where  then  is  mercy  ?— whither  shall  we  flee, 
So  unallied  to  hope,  save  by  our  hold  on  thee  ! 

LXXXV  III. 

"  But  didst  thou  not,  the  deep  sea  brightly  tread 

in?, 

Lift  from  despair  that  struggler  with  the  wave  7 
And  wert  thou  not,  sad  tears,  yet  awful,  shedding, 
Beheld,  a  weeper  at  a  mortal's  grave  ? 
And  is  this  weight  of  anguish,  which  they  bind 
On  life,  this  searing  to  the  quick  of  mind. 
That  but  to  God  its  own  free  path  would  crave 
This  crushing  out  of  hope,  and  love,  and  youth, 
Thy  will  indeed  ?— Give  light,  that  I  may  know  tb« 
truth' 


284 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LXXXIX. 

"  For  my  sick  soul  is  darken'd  unto  death, 
With  shadows,  from  the  suffering  it  hath  seen  ; 
The  strong  foundations  of  mine  ancient  faith 
Sink  from  beneath  me — whereon  shall  I  lean  ? 
— Obi  if  from  thy  pure  lips  was  wrung  the  sigh 
Ot  the  dust's  anguish  I  if  like  man  to  die, 
— And  earth  round  Aim  shuts  heavily — hath  been 
Even  to  thee  bitter,  aid  me!— guide  me !— turn 
My  wild  and  wandering  thoughts  back  from  their 
starless  bourn  I" 

XC. 

And  calm'd  I  rose; — but  how  the  while  had  risen 
Morn's  orient  sun,  dissolving  mist  and  shade  1 
— Could  there  indeed  be  wrong,  or  chain,  or  prison, 
In  the  bright  world  such  radiance  might  pervade  ? 
It  fill'd  the  fane,  it  mantled  the  pale  form 
Which  rose  before  me  thro'  the  pictured  storm. 
Even  the  gray  tombs  it  kindled  and  array'd 
With  life  ? — how  hard  to  see  thy  race  begun. 
And  think  man  wakes  to  grief,  wakening  to  tltee. 
Osun! 

XCI 

I  sought  my  home  again  :— and  thou,  my  child. 
There  at  thy  play  beneath  yon  ancient  pine. 
With  eyes,  whose  lightning  laughter  (10)  hath 

beguiled 

A  thousand  pangs,  thence  flashing  joy  to  mine; 
Thou  in  *.hy  mother's  arms,  a  babe,  didst  meet 
My  coming  with  young  smiles,  which  yet,  though 

sweet, 

Seem'd  on  my  soul  all  mournfully  to  shine. 
And  ask  a  happier  heritage  for  thee, 
Than  but  in  turn  the  blight  of  human  hope  to  Bee. 

XCII. 
Now  sport,  for  thou  art  free— the  bright  birds 

chasing, 
Whose  wings  waft  star-like  gleams  from  tree  to 

tree ; 
Or  with  the  fawn,  thy  swift  wood-playmate 

racing, 

Sport  on,  my  joyous  child  I  for  thou  art  free  I 
Yes,  on  that  day  I  took  thee  to  my  heart. 
And  inly  vow'd,  for  thee,  a  better  part 
To  choose  ;  that  so  thy  sunny  bursts  of  glee 
Should  wake  no  more  dim  thoughts  of  far-seen 

woe, 
But,  gladdening  fearless  eyes,  flow  on— as  now 

they  flow. 

XCIII. 

Thou  hast  a  rich  world  round  thee :— Mighty 

shades 

Weaving  their  gorgeous  tracery  o'er  thy  head. 
With  the  light  melting  through  their  high  arcades 
As  through  a  pillar'd  cloister's :  (11)  but  the  dead 
Sleep  not  beneath ;  nor  doth  the  sunbeam  pass 
To  marble  shrines  through  rainbow-tinted  glass; 
Yet  thou,  by  fount  and  forest-murmur  led 
To  wors"^p,  thou  art  blest !— to  thee  is  shown 
Earth  in  li  •:  holy  pomp,  deck'd  for  her  God  alone 


FOREST    SANCTUARY. 

PART  SECOND. 


WM  diet*  Irene  liebe  Seel* 

Von  ihrcKi  Glauben  Toll, 

Dei  ganzallein 

Ibrwlig  macheod  isl,  ucb  beilig  quale, 
Dass  lie  den  liebsten  Minn  verloren  halten  soil ! 

fault 

I  never  imile  more— but  all  my  days 

Walk  with  still  footsteps  and  with  bumble  eyes, 

AD  everlasting  hymn  within  my  soul. 


I. 

BRING  me  the  sounding  of  the  torrent-water 
With  yetanearerswell— fresh  breeze,  a  wake  1(12) 
And  liver  dark'ning  ne'er  with  hues  of  slaughter 
Thy  wave's  pure  silvery  green,— and  shining  lake, 
Spread  far  before  my  cabin,  with  thy  zone 
Of  ancient  woods,  ye  chainless  things  and  lone \ 
Send  voices  through  the  forest  aisles,  and  make 
Glad  music  round  me,  that  my  soul  may  dare, 
Cheer'd  by  such  tones,  to  look  back  on  a  dun- 
geon's air  I 

II. 

Oh,  Indian  hunter  of  the  desert's  race  ! 
That  with  the  spear  at  times,  or  bended  bow, 
Dost  cross  my  footsteps  in  the  fiery  chase 
Of  the  swift  elk  or  blue  hill's  flying  roe  ; 
Thou  that  beside  the  red  night-fire  thou  heapcst. 
Beneath  the  cedars  and  the  star-light  sleepcst, 
Thou  know'st  not,  wanderer— never  may'st  thou 

know  I 

Of  the  dark  holds  wherewith  man  cumbers  earth, 
To  shut  from  human  eyes  the  dancing  season'! 

mirth. 

III. 
There,  fetter'd  down  from  day,  to  think  the 

while 

How  bright  in  Heaven  the  festal  sun  is  glowing. 
Making  earth's  loneliest  places,  with  his  smile. 
Flush  like  the  rose;  and  how  the  streams  are 

flowing 

With  sudden  sparkles  thro'  the  shadowy  grass. 
And  water-flowers,  all  trembling  as  they  pass; 
And  how  the  rich  dark  summer-trees  are  bowing 
With  their  full  foliage; — this  to  know,  and  pine, 
Bound  unto  midnight's  heart,  seems  a  stern  lot  - 

't  was  mine. 

IV. 

Wherefore  was   this  ?— Because   my  soul  had 

drawn 
Light  from  the  book  whose  words  are  graved  in 

light  I 

There  at  its  well-head  had  I  found  the  dawn. 
And  day,  and  noon  of  freedom  : — but  too  bright 
It  shines  on  that  which  man  to  man  hath  given, 
And    call'd    the    truth  —  the  very  truth,   from 

Heaven  1 

And  therefore  seeks  he,  in  his  brother's  sipht. 

To  cast  the  mote;  and  therefore  strives  to  bind 

With  his  strong  chains  to  earth,  what  is  not 

earth's — the  nt'id 

V. 

It  is  a  weary  and  a  titter  task 

BacK  from  the  lip  the  burning  word  to  keep, 

And  to  shut  out  Heaven's  air  with  falscbood'i 

mask, 
And  in  the  dark  urn  of  the  soul  to  heap 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Indignant  feelings— making  even  of  thought 
A  buried  treasure,  which  may  but  be  sought 
When  shadows  are  abroad— and  night — and 

sleep. 

I  might  not  brook  it  long— and  thus  was  thrown 
Into  that  grave-like  cell,  to  wither  there  alone. 

VI. 

And  I,  a  child  of  danger,  whose  delights 

Were  on  dark  hills  and  many-sounding  seas- 

I,  that  amidst  the  Cordillera  heights 

Had  given  Castilian  banners  to  the  breeze, 

And  the  full  circle  of  the  rainbow  seen 

There,  on  the  snows;  (13)  and  in  my  country 

been 

A  mountain  wanderer,  from  the  Pyrenees 
To  the  Morena  crags— how  left  I  not 
Life,  or  the  soul's  life,  quench'd,  on  that  sepulchral 

spot  ? 

VII. 

Because  Thou  didst  not  leave  me.  oh  my  God! 
Thou  wert  with  thuse  that  bore  the  truth  of  old 
Into  the  deserts  from  the  oppressor's  rod, 
And  made  the  caverns  of  the  rock  their  fold, 
And  in  the  hidden  chambers  of  the  dead, 
Our  guiding  lamp  with  fire  immortal  fed. 
And  met  when  stars  met,  by  their  beams  to  hold 
The  free  heart's  communing  with  Thee, — and 

Thou 
Wert  in  the  midst,  felt,  own'd— the  strengthener 

then  as  now! 

VIII. 

Yet  once  I  sank.  Alas !  man's  wavering  mind  I 
Wherefore  and  whence  the  gusts  that  o'er  it 

blow? 

How  they  bear  with  them,  floating  uncombined, 
The  shadows  of  the  past,  that  come  and  go, 
As  o'er  the  deep  the  old  long-buried  things, 
Which  a  storm's  working  to  the  surface  brings 
Is  the  reed  shaken,  and  must  we  be  so, 
With  every  wind?— So,  Father!  must  we  be, 
Till  we  can  fix  undimm'd  our  steadfast  eyes  on 
Thee. 

IX. 

Once  my  soul  died  within  me.  What  had  thrown 
That  sickness  o'er  it  ?— Even  a  passing  thought 
Of  a  clear  spring,  whose  side,  with  flowers  o'er- 

grown, 

Fondly  and  oft  my  boyish  steps  had  sought! 
Perchance  the  damp  roofs  water-drops  that  fell 
Just  then,  low  tinkling  through  my  vaulted  cell, 
Intensely  heard  amidst  the  stillness,  caught 
Some  tone  from  memory,  of  the  music,  swelling 
Ever  with  that  fresh  rill,  from  its  deep  rocky 

dwelling. 

X. 

But  so  my  spirit's  fever'd  longings  wrought, 
Wakening,  it  might  be,  to   the  faint  sad  sound 
That  from  the  darkness  of  the  walls  they  brought 
A  loved  scene  round  me,  visibly  around.  (14) 
Yes  I  kindling,  spreading,  brightening,  hue  by 

hue, 
Like  stars  from  midnight,  through  the  gloom  it 

grew, 
That  haunt  of  youth,  hope,  manhood !~till  the 

bound 

Of  my  shut  cavern  seem'd  dissolved,  and  I 
Girt  by  the  solemn  hills  and  burning  pomp  of  sky. 

XI. 

I  look'd— and  lo!  the  clear  broad  river  flowing, 
Past  the  old  Moorish  ruin  on  the  steep, 
The  lone  tower  dark  against  a  heaven  all  glow- 
ing, 

Like  seas  of  g\ass  and  fire  !— I  saw  the  sweep 
Of  glorious  woods  far  down  the  mountain  side. 
And  their  still  shadows  in  the  gleaming  tide. 
And  the  red  evening  on  its  waves  asleep; 
And  'midst  the  scene— oh  1  more  than  all— there 

smiled 

My  child's  fair  face  and  her'§,  the  mother  of  mv 
child. 


XII. 

With  their  soft  eyes  of  love  and  gladness  raised 
Up  to  the  flushing  sky,  as  when  we  stood 
Last  by  that  river,  and  in  silence  ea/.ed 
On  the  rich  world  of  sunset : — but  a  flood 
Of  sudden  tenderness  my  soul  oppress'd. 
And  I  rush'd  forward  with  a  yearning  breast, 
To  clasp— alas!  a  vision  !    Wave  and  wood, 
And  gentle  faces  lifted  in  the  light 
Of  day's  last  hectic  blush,  all  melted  from  my  sight 

XIII. 

Then  darkness!  oh!  th'  unutterable  gloom 
That  seem'd  as  narrowing  round  me,  making  )M 
And  less  my  dungeon,  when,  with  all  its  bloom, 
That  bright  dream  vanish'd  from  my  loneliness) 
It  floated  off,  the  beautiful !— yet  left 
Such  deep  thirst  in  my  soul,  that  thus  bereft, 
I  lay  down,  sick  with  passion's  vdin  excess. 
And  pray'd  to  die.— How  oft  would  sorrow  weep 
Her  weariness  to  death,  if  he  might  come  like  sleep! 

XIV. 

But  I  was  roused — and  how? — It  is  no  talc 
Even  'midst  thy  shades,  tltou  wilderness,  to  tell  I 
I  would  not  have  my  boy's  young  cheek  made 

pale 

Nor  haunt  his  sunny  rest  with  what  befell 
In  that  drear  prison-house.— His  eye  must  grow 
More  dark  with  thought,  more  earnest  his  fait 

brow. 
More  high  his  heart  in  youthful  strength  must 

swell ; 

So  shall  it  fitly  burn  when  all  is  told  : — 
Let  childhood's  radiant  mist  the  free  child  yet  en- 
fold i 

XV. 

It  is  enough  that  through  such  heavy  hours, 
As  wring  us  by  our  fellowship  of  clay, 
I  lived,  and  undegraded.    We  have  powers 
To  snatch  th'  oppressor's  bitter  joy  away  I 
Shall  the  wild  Indian,  for  his  savage  fame. 
Laugh  and  expire,  and  shall  not  Truth's  h;gt~ 

name 

Bear  up  her  martyrs  with  all-conquering  sway: 
It  is  enough  that  Torture  may  be  vain — 
I  had  seen  Alvar  die— the  strife  was  won  from 
pain. 

XVI. 

And  faint  not,  heart  of  man  I  though  years  wane 

slow! 
There  have  been  those  that  from  the  deepes* 

caves, 

And  cells  of  night,  and  fastnesses  below 
The  stormy  dashing  of  the  ocean-waves, 
Down,  farther  down  than  gold  lies  bid,  hav 

nursed 
A  quenchless  hope,  and  watch'd  their  time,  ana 

burst 

On  the  bright  day,  like  wakeners  from  the  gravest 
I  was  of  such  at  last!— unchain'd  I  trod 
This  green  earth,  taking  back  my  freedom  from 

my  God  1 

XVII. 

That  was  an  hour  to  send  its  fadeless  trace 
Down  life's  far  sweeping  tide ! — A  dim,  wild 

night, 

Like  sorrow  hung  upon  the  soft  moon's  face, 
Yet  how  my  heart  leap'd  in  her  blessed  light 
The  shepherd's  light— the  sailor's  on  the  sea — 
The  hunter's  homeward  from  the  mountain  free, 
Where  its  lone  smile  makes  tremulously  bright 
The  thousand  streams  1  I  could  but  gaze  through 

tears — 
Oh !  what  a  sight  is  heaven,  thus  first  behelrf  for 

years  I 

XVIII. 

The  rolling  clouds !— they  have  the  whole  MM 

space 
Above  to  sail  in — all  the  dome  of  skyl 


286 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


My  soul  shot  with  them  in  their  breezy  race 
O'er  star  and  glooin  !— but     had  yet  to  fly, 
As  flies  the  hunted  wolf.    A  secret  spot, 
Aii'l  strange,  I  knew — the  sunbeam  knew  it  not; 
Wildest  of  all  the  savage  glens  that  lie 
In  far  sierras,  hiding  their  deep  springs, 
And  traversed  but  by  storms,  or  sounding  eagles' 
wings. 

XIX. 

Ay,  and  I  met  the  storm  there!— I  had  gain'd 
The  covert's  heart  with  swift  and  stealthy  tread: 
A  moan  went  past  me,  and  the  dark  trees  rain'd 
Their  autumn  foliage  rustling  on  my  head  ; 
A  moan — a  hollow  gust — and  there  I  stood 
fJirt  with  majestic  night,  and  ancient  wood, 
And  foaming  water. — Thither  might  have  fled 
The  mountain  Christian  with  his  faith  of  yore, 
When  Afric's  tambour  shook  the  ringing  western 
shore  1 

XX. 

But  through  the  black  ravine  the  storm  cam 

swelling — 

Mighty  thou  art  amidst  the  hills,  thou  blast! 
In  thy  lone  course  the  kingly  cedars  felling, 
Like  plumes  upon  the  path  of  battle  cast ! 
A  rent  oak  thunder'd  down  beside  my  cave — 
Booming  it  rush'd,  as  booms  a  deep  sea-wave; 
A  falcon  soar'd  ;  a  startled  wild-deer  pass'd  ; 
A  far-ofT  bell  toll'd  faintly  through  the  roar- 
How  my  glad  spirit  swept  forth  with  the  winds 

once  more  1 

XXI. 

And  with  the  arrowy  lightnings!  -  for  they  flash'd 
Smiting  the  branches  in  their  fitful  play, 
And  brightly  shivering  where  the  torrents  dash'd 
Up,  even  to  crag  and  eagle's  nest  their  spray! 
And  there  to  stand  amidst  the  pealing  strife, 
The  strong  pines  groaning  with  tempestuous  life, 
And  all  the  mountain  voices  on  their  way, — 
Was  it  not  joy  ? — 'twas  joy  in  rushing  might, 
After  those  years  that  wove  but  one  long  dead  of 

night! 

XXII. 

There  came  a  softer  hour,  a  lovelier  moon, 
And  lit  me  to  my  home  of  youth  again, 
Through  the  dim  chestnut  shade,  where  oft  at 

noon, 

By  the  fount's  flashing  burst,  my  head  had  lain, 
In  gentle  sleep:  but  now  I  pass'd  as  one 
That  may  not  pause  where  wood-streams  whis- 
pering run, 

Or  light  sprays  tremble  to  a  bird's  wild  strain, 
Because  t.h'  avenger's  voice  is  in  the  wind, 
The  foe's  quick  rustling  step  close  on  the  leaves 

behind. 

XXIII. 

My  home  of  youth  !— oh!  if  indeed  to  part 
With  the  soul's  loved  ones  be  a  mournful  thing, 
When  we  go  forth  in  buoyancy  of  heart, 
And  bearing  all  the  glories  of  our  spring 
For  life  to  breathe  on, — is  it  less  to  meet, 
When  these  are  faded  ?— Who  shall  call  it  sweet? 
Even  though  love's  mingling  tears  may  haply 

bring 

Balm  as  they  fall,  too  well  their  heavy  showers 
Teach  us  how  much  is  lost  of  all  that  once  was 

ours! 

XXIV. 

Not  by  the  sunshine,  with  its  golden  glow, 
Nor  the  green  earth,  nor  yet  the  laughing  sky, 
Nor  the  faint  flower-scents,  (15)  as  they  come 

and  go 

Tn  the  soft  air.  like  music  wandering  by ; 
— Oh  !  not  by  these,  th'  unfailing,  are  we  taught 
How  time    and  sorrow  on    our  frames   have 

wrought ; 

But  by  the  sadden'd  eye,  the  darken'd  brow, 
Of  kindred  aspects,  and  the  long  dim  gaze. 
Which  tells  us  ice  are  changed,— how  changed  front 

other  days  ! 


XXV. 

Before  my  father— in  my  place  cf  birth, 
I  stood  an  alien.    On  the  very  floor 
Which  oft  had  tresibled  to  my  hoyish  mirth, 
The  love  that  rear'd  me,  knew  my  face  no  more! 
There  hung  the  antique  armour,  helm  and  crest, 
Whose  every  stain  woke  childhood  in  my  breast, 
There  droop'd  the  banner,  with  the  marks  it  bore 
Of  Paynim  spears;  and  I,  the  worn  in  frame 
And  heart,  what  there  was  I?— another  and  the 
same  1 

XXVI. 

Then  bounded  in  a  boy,  with  clear  dark  eye — 
— How  should  he.  know  his  father? — when  we 

parted. 

From  the  soft  cloud  which  mantles  infancy. 
His  soul,  just  wakening  into  wonder,  darted 
Its  first  looks  round.   Him  follow'.!  one,  the  bride 
Of  my  young  days,  the  wife  how  loved  and  tried ' 
Her  glance  met  mine — I  could  not  speak — she 

started 

With  a  bewilder'd  gaze; — until  there  came 
Tears  to  my  burning  eyes,  and  from  my  lips  her 

name. 

XXVII. 

She  knew  me  then  !— I  niurmur'd  "  LeonorT' 
And  her  heart  answer'd ! — oh  I  the  voice  is  known 
First  from  all  else,  and  swiftest  to  restore 
Love's  buried  images  with  one  low  tone, 
That  strikes  like  lightning,  when  the  cheek  ii 

faded, 

And  the  brow  heavily  with  thought  o'ershaded, 
And  all  the  brightness  from  the  aspect  gone  I 
— Upon  my  breast  she  sunk,  when  doubt  was  fled. 
Weeping  as  those  may  weep,  that  meet  in  woe 
and  dread. 

XXVIII. 

For  there  wo  might  not  rest.     Alas!  tn  leave 
Thosf  unlive  tcwprs  an'1  k'lnw  that  they  must 

fall 

By  slow  decay,  and  none  remain  to  grieve 
When  the  weeds  cluster'd  on  the  lonely  wall! 
We  were  the  last— my  boy  and  I— the  last 
Of  a  long  line  which  brightly  thence  had  pass'd! 
My  father  blr-ss'd  me  as  I  left  his  hall — 
With  his  deep  tones  and  sweet,  tho'  full  of  year*, 
He  bless'd  me  there,  and  bathed  my  child's  young 

head  with  tears. 

XXIX. 

I  had  brought  sorrow  on  his  gray  hairs  down. 
And  cast  the  darkness  of  my  branded  name 
(For  so  he  deem'd  it)  on  the  clear  renown, 
My  own  ancestral  heritage  of  fame. 
And  yet  he  bless'd  me  ! — Father !  if  the  dust 
Lie  on  those  lips  benign,  my  spirit's  trust 
Is  to  behold  thee  yet,  where  grief  and  shame 
Dim  the  bright  day  no  more ;  and  thou  wilt  know 
That  not  through  guilt  thy  son  thus  bou'd  thine 
age  with  woe ! 

XXX. 

And  thou,  my  Leonor  !  that  unrepining, 
If  sad  in  soul,  didst  quit  all  else  for  me, 
When  stars— the  stars  that  earliest  rise--ar» 

shining, 
How  their  soft  glance  unseals  each  thought  of 

thee! 

For  on  our  flight  they  smiled  ;  their  dewy 
Through  the  last  olives,  lit  thy  tearful  gaze 
Back  to  the  home  we  never  more  might  see ; 
So  pass'd  we  on,  like  earth's  first  exiles,  turning 
Fond  looks  where  hung  the  sword  above  their  Eden 

burning. 

XXXI. 

It  was  a  woe  to  say—"  Farewell,  my  Spain ! 
The  sunny  and  the  vintage  land,  farewell !" 
— I  could  have  died  upon  the  battle-plain 
For  thee,  my  country  !  b*t  I  might  not  dwell 
In  thy  sweet  vales,  at  peace.— Tho  voici;  of  song 
Breathes  with  the  myrtle  scent,  thy  hills  alone; 
The  citron'i  glow  is  caught  from  shade  and  dell ; 


HEMAXS"  POETICAL  WORKS. 


287 


But  what  are  these  ? — upon  thy  flowery  sod 
I  might  not  kneel,  and  pour  my  free  thoughts  jut 
to  God  1 

XXXII. 

O'er  the  blue  deep  I  fled,  the  rhainlcss  deep! 
Strange  heart  of  man!   that  ev'n  'midst  woe 

swells  high, 
Whpn  through  the  foam  he  sees  his  proud  bark 

swjep, 

FYr.ging  out  joyous  gleams  to  wave  and  sky  ! 
Yes!  it  swells  high,  whate'er  he  leaves  behind; 
His  spirit  rises  with  the  rising  wind  ; 
For,  wedded  to  the  far  futurity, 
On,  on,  it  bears  him  ever,  and  the  main 
Seems  rushing  like  his  hope,  some  happier  shore 

to  gain. 

XXXIII. 

Not  thus  is  woman.    Closely  her  still  heart 
Doth  twine  itself  with  ev'n  each  lifeless  thing, 
Which,  long  remember'd,  seem'd  to  bear  its  part 
In  her  calm  joys.     For  ever  would  she  cling, 
A  brooding  dove,  to  that  sole  spot  of  earth 
Where  she  hath  loved,  and  given  her  children 

birth, 
And  heard  their  first  sweet  voices.    There  may 

Spring 

Array  no  path,  renew  no  flower,  no  leaf, 
But  hath  its  breath  of  home,  its  claim  to  farewell 

grief. 

XXXIV. 

I  look'd  on  Leonor,  and  if  there  seem'd 
A  cloud  of  more  than  pensiveness  to  rise. 
In  the  faint  smiles  that  o'er  her  features  gteanfd, 
And  the  soft  darkness  of  her  serious  eyes, 
Misty  with  tender  gloom,  I  call'd  it  naught 
But  the  fond  exile's  pang,  a  lingering  thought 
Of  her  own  vale,  with  all  its  melodies 
And  living  light  of  streams.    Her  soul  would  rest 
Beneath  your  shades,  I  said,  bowers  of  the  gor- 
geous west ! 

XXXV. 

Oh    could  we  live  in  visions  I  could  we  hold 
Delusion  faster,  longer  to  our  breast. 
When  it  shuts  from  us,  with  its  mantle's  fold, 
That  which  we  see  not,  and  are  therefore  blest  I 
But  they  our  loved  and  loving,  they  to  whom 
We  have  spread  out  our  souls  in  joy  and  gloom, 
Their  looks  and  accents,  unto  ours  address'd, 
Have  been  a  language  of  familiar  tone 
Too  long  to  breathe  at  last  dark  sayings  and  un- 
known. 

XXXVI. 

I  told  my  heart  'twas  but  the  exile's  woe 
Which  press'd  on  that  sweet  bosom ;—  I  deceived 
My  heart  but  half :— a  whisper  faint  and  lr>w, 
Haunting  it  ever,  and  at  times  believed. 
Spoke  of  some  deeper  cause.    How  oft  we  seem 
Like  those  that  dream,  and  know  the  while  they 

dream, 

'Midst  the  soft  falls  of  airy  voices,  grieved 
And  troubled,  while  bright  phantoms  round  them 

play, 
By  a  dim  sense  that  all  will  float  and  fade  away! 

XXXVII. 

Yet,  as  if  chasing  joy,  I  woo'd  the  breeze, 
To  speed  me  onward  with  the  wings  of  morn. 
—  Oh  !  far  amidst  the  solitary  seas. 
Which  were  not  made  for  man,  what  man  hath 

home, 
Answering   their  moan  with  his!  — what  thou 

didst  bear, 

My  lost  and  loveliest!  while  that  secret  care 
Grew  terror,  and  thy  centle  spirit,  worn 
By  its  dull  brooding  weight,  gave  way  at  last, 
holding  me  as  one  from  hope  for  ever  cast ! 

XXXVIII. 

For  unto  thee.  as  through  all  change,  reveal'd 
Mine  inward  being  lay.     In  other  eyes 
I  had  to  bnw  IMP  yet,  and  make  a  shield, 
To  fence  my  burning  bosom,  of  disguise; 


But  the  still  hope  sustaiu'd,  ere  long  to  win 
Some  sanctuary,  whnse  green  retreats  within, 
My  thoughts  unfetter'd  to  their  source  might  rise. 
Like  songs  and  scents  of  morn. — But  thou  didst 

look 
Through  all  my  soul,  and  thine  even  unto  fainting 

shook. 

XXXIX. 

Fall'n,  fall'n,  I  seem'd — yet,  oh  I  not  less  be 

loved, 

Tho'  from  thy  love  was  pluck'd  the  early  pride, 
And  harshly,  by  a  gloomy  faith,  reproved 
And  scar'd  with  shame!  —  though  each  young 

flower  had  died, 

There  was  the  root, — strong,  living,  not  the  lean 
That  all  it  yielded  now  was  bitterness; 
Yet  still  such  love  ns  quits  not  misery's  side, 
Nor  drops  from  guilt  its  ivy-like  embrace, 
Nor  turns  away  from  death  its  pale  heroic  face 

XL. 

Yes!  thou  hadst  follow'd  me  through  fear  and 

flight ; 

Thou  woulilst  have  follow'd,  had  my  pathway  led 
Even  to  the  scaffold ;  had  the  flashing  light 
Of  the  raised  axe  made  strong  men  shrink  with 

dread, 
Thou,  'midst  the  hush  of  thousands,  wouldst 

have  been 

With  thy  clasp'd  hands  beside  me  kneeling  seen, 
And  meekly  bowing  to  the  shame  thy  head — 
— The  shame! — oh!  making  beautiful  to  view 
The  might  of  human  love — fair  thing!  so  bravely 

true ! 

XLI. 

There  was  thine  agony— to  love  BO  well 
Where  fear  made  love  life's  chastener. — Hereto- 
fore 

Whnte'er  of  earth's  disquiet  round  thee  fell, 
Thy  ioul,  o'erpassing  its  dim  bounds,  could  soar 
Away  to  sunshine,  and  thy  clear  eye  speak 
Most  of  the  skies  when  grief  most  touch'd  thy 

cheek. 

Now.  that  far  brightness  faded!  never  more 
Couldst  thou  lift  heavenwards  for  its  hope  thy 

heart. 
Since  at  Heaven's  gate  it  seem'd  that  thou  and  I 

must  part. 

XLII. 

Alas  !  and  life  hath  moments  when  a  glance 
(If  thought  to  sudden  watchfulness  be  stirr'd,) 
A  flush— a  fading  o,f  the  cheek  perchance, 
A  word — less,  less — the  cadence  of  a  word. 
Lets  in  our  gaze  the  mind's  dim  veil  beneath. 
Thence  to  bring  haply  knowledge  fraught  with 

death ! 

— Even  thus,  what  never  from  thy  lip  was  heard 
Broke  on  my  soul.— I  knew  that  in  thy  sight 
I  stood  —  howe'er  beloved  —  a  recreant  from  the 

light! 

XL1II. 

Thy  sad  sweet  hymn,  at  eve,  the  seas  along, — 
—Oh  1  the  deep  soul  it  breathed  !— the  love,  the 

woe, 

The  fervour,  pour'd  in  that  full  gush  of  song, 
As  it  went  floating  through  the  fiery  glow 
Of  the  rich  sunset! — bringing  thoughts  of  Spain, 
With  all  her  vesper- voices  o'er  the  main. 
Which  seem'd  responsive  in  its  murmuring  flow, 
— "  Jive  sanctissimar—\taw  oft  that  lay 
Hath  melted  from  my  heart  the  martyr-strength 

away! 

Ave  ennctissima ! 
'Tis  night-fall  on  the  sea  ; 

Ora  pro  nobis ! 
Our  souls  rise  to  thee ! 

Watch  us  while  shadows  lie 
O'er  the  dim  w  iter  spread ; 

Hear  the  heart's  Ir.nely  siph, 
—  Thine,  too,  hath  bled! 


2-S8 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thou  that  hast  look'd  on  death, 
Aid  us  when  death  is  near! 

Whisper  of  Heaven  to  faith ; 
Sweet  mother,  hear  I 

Ora  pro  no  his  I 
The  wave  must  rock  our  sleep, 

Ora,  mater,  oral 
Thou  star  of  the  deep  I 

XL1V. 

'  Ora  pro  nobit,  mater  /"—What  a  spell 
Was  in  those  notes  with  day's  last  glory  dying 
On  the  flush'd  waters  I — seem'd  they  not  to  swell 
From  the  far  dust,  wherein  my  sires  were  lying 
With  crucifix  and  sword? — Oh!  yet  how  clear 
Comes  their  reproachful  sweetness  to  mine  ear! 
"  Ora  /" — with  all  the  purple  waves  replying, 
All  my  youth's  visions  rising  in  the  strain — 
.—And  I  had  thought  it  much  to  bear  the  rack  and 
chain ! 

XLV. 

Torture  I— the  sorrow  of  affection's  eye. 
Fixing  its  meekness  on  the  spirit's  core. 
Deeper,  and  teaching  more  of  agony. 
May  pierce  than  many  swords ! — and  this  I  born 
With  a  mute  pang.    Since  1  had  vainly  striven 
From  its  free  springs  to  pour  the  truth  of  Heaven 
Into  thy  trembling  soul,  my  Leonor! 
Silence  rose  up  where  hearts  no  more  could  share: 
— Alas  I  for  those  that  love,  and  may  not  blend  in 
prayer  1 

XLVI. 

We  could  not  pray  together  'midst  the  deep. 
Which,  like  a  floor  of  sapphire,  round  us  lay, 
Througli  days  of  splendour,  nights  too  bright  for 

sleep. 

Soft,  solemn,  holy ! — We  were  on  our  way 
Unto  the  mighty  Cordillera-land, 
With  men  whom  tales  of  that  world's  golden 

strand 

Had  lured  to  leave  their  vines. — Oh !  who  shall  say 

What  thoughts  rose  in  us,  when  the  tropic  sky 

"ouch'd  all  its  molten  seas  with  sunset's  alchemy? 

XLVII. 

Thoughts  no  more  mingled!— Then  came  night 

— th'  intense 

Dark  blue — the  burning  stars  I — I  saw  thee  shine 
Once  more,  in  thy  serene  magnificence, 

0  Southern  Cross !  (16)  as  when  thy  radiant  sign 
First  drew  my  gaze  of  youth. — No.  not  as  then  ; 

1  had  been  stricken  by  the  darts  of  men 

Since  those  fresh  days,  and  now  thy  light  divine 

Look'd  on  mine  anguish,  while  within  me  strove 

The  still  small  voice  against  the  might  of  suffering 

love. 

XLVIII. 
But  thou,  the  clear,  the  glorious!  thou  wert 

pouring 

Brilliance  and  joy  upon  the  crystal  wave, 
While  she,  that  met  thy  ray  with  eyes  adoring, 
Stood  in  the  lengthening  shadow  of  the  gravel 
— Alas!  I  watch'd  her  dark  religious  glance, 
As  it  still  sought  thee  thro' the  Heaven's  expanse, 
Bright  Cross  .'—and  knew  not  that  I  watch'd  what 

gave 

But  passing  lustre— shrouded  soon  to  be— 
A  soft  light  found  no  more — no  more  on  earth  or  sea) 

XLIX. 

I  knew  not  all— yet  something  of  unrest 
Sat  on  my  heart.    Wake,  ocean-wind  1  I  said  ; 
Waft  us  to  land,  in  leafy  freshness  drest, 
Where  thro'  rich  clouds  of  foliage  o'er  her  head, 
Sweet  day  may  steal,  and  rills  unseen  go  by. 
Like  singing  voices,  and  the  green  earth  lie, 
Starry  with  flowers,  beneath  her  graceful  tread t 
— But  the  calm  bound  us  'midst  the  classy  main; 
Ne'er  was  her  step  to  bend  earth's  living  flower 

•gain. 


L. 

Yes!  as  if  heaven  upon  the  waves  were  sleeping. 
Vexing  my  soul  with  quie.t.  there  they  lay 
All  moveless  through  their  blue  transparence 

keeping. 

The  shadows  of  our  sails  from  day  to  day ; 
While  she — ohl  strongest  in  the  strong  heal  t'« 

woe — 

And  yet  I  live!  I  feel  the  sunshine's  glow— 
And  I  am  he  that  look'd.  and  saw  decay 
Steal  o'er  the  fair  of  earth,  the  adored  too  much! 
— It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  love  what  death  may  touch. 

LI. 

A  fearful  thing  that  love  and  death  may  dwell 
In  the  same  world!— She  faded  on — and  I — 
Blind  to  the  last,  there  needed  death  to  tell 
My  trusting  soul  that  she  could  fade  to  die! 
Yet,  ere  she  parted,  I  had  mark'd  a  change. 
But  it  breathed  hope — 'twas  beautiful,  though 

strange : 

Something  of  gladness  in  the  melody 
Of  her  low  voice,  and  in  her  words  a  flight 
Of  airy  thought— alas!  too  perilously  bright! 

LII. 

And  a  clear  sparkle  in  her  glance,  yet  wilu. 
And  quick,  and  eager,  like  the  flashing  gaze 
Of  some  all-wondering  and  awakening  child, 
That  first  the  glories  of  the  earth  surveys. 
— How  could  it  thus  deceive  me  ? — she  had  wor  1 
Around  her.  like  the  dewy  mists  of  morn. 
A  pensive  tenderness  through  happiest  days, 
And  a  soft  world  of  dreams  had  seem'd  to  lie 
Still  in  her  dark,  and  deep,  and  spiritual  eye. 

LIII 

And  I  could  hope  in  that  strange  fire! — she rtied. 
She  died  with  all  its  lustre  on  her  mien  I 
—The  day  was  molting  from  the  waters  wide, 
And  through  its  long  bright  hours  her  thought! 

had  been, 

It  seem'd,  with  restless  and  unwonted  yearning, 
To  Spain's  blue  skies  and  dark  sierras  turning  : 
For  her  fond  words  were  all  of  vintnge-scbre. 
And  flowering  myrtle,  and  sweet  citron's  breath — 
Oh!  with  what  vivid  hues  life  comes  back  oft  on 
death  I 

LIV. 

And  from  her  lips  the  mountain-songs  of  old. 
In  wild  faint  snatches,  fitfully  had  sprung; 
Songs  of  the  orange  bower,  the  Moorish  hold. 
The  "  Rio  verde"  (17)  on  her  soul  that  hung. 
And  thence  flow'd  forth. — But  now  the  sun  w«i 

low, 

And  watching  by  my  side  its  last  red  glow, 
That  ever  stills  the  heart,  once  more  she  sung 
Her  own  soft  '•  Ora,  mater .'" — and  the  sound 
Was  ev'n  like  love's  farewell — so  mournfully  pro- 
found 

The  boy  had  dropp'd  to  slumber  at  our  feet  ;— 
"  And  I  have  lull'd  him  to  his  smiling  rest 
Once  morel"  she  said:— I  raised  him— it  was 

sweet, 

Yet  sad,  to  see  the  perfect  calm  which  bless'd 
His  look  that  hour ; — for  now  her  voice  grew 

weak: 

And  on  the  flowery  crimson  of  his  cheek, 
With  her  white  lips  a  long,  long  kiss  she  press'd, 
Yet  light,  to  wake  him  not.— Then  sank  her  head 
Against  my  bursting  heait.— What  did  I  clasp  ?— 

the  dead ! 

LVI. 

I  call'd — to  call  what  answers  not  our  cries— 
By  that  we  loved  to  stand  unseen,  unheard, 
With  the  loud  passion  of  our  tears  and  sight 
To  see  but  some  cold  glistering  ringlet  stlrr'd, 
And  in  the  quench'd  eye's  fixedness  to  gaze, 
All  vainly  searching  for  the  parted  rays; 
This  is  what  waits  us!— Dead  !— with  that  cbir 

word 

To  link  our  bosom-names!— For  this  we  pour 
Our  souls  upon  the  dust — nor  tremble  to  adorel 


HEMANS1  POKTICAL  WO!!KS. 


289 


LVH 

But  the  true  parting  camel— 1  Inok'd  my  last 
On  the  sad  beauty  of  that  slumb'ring  face  ; 
How  could  I  think  the  lovely  spirit  pass'd, 
Whieh  there  hud  left  so  tenderly  its  trace  7 
Yet  a  dim  awfnlness  was  on  the  lirow — 
No  I  not  like  sleep  to  look  upon  art  Thou, 
Death,  death!— she  lay,  a  thing  for  earth's  em 

brace. 
To  cover  with  spring-wreaths. — For  earth's? — 

the  wave 
That  gives  the  bier  no  flowers— makes  moan  above 

her  grave! 

LVIII. 

On  the  mid-seas  a  knell !— for  man  was  there, 
Anguish  and  love — the  mourner  with  his  dead  ' 
A  long  low-rolling  knell  — a  voice  of  prayer — 
Park  glassy  waters,  like  a  desert  spread, — 
And  the  pale  shitting  Southern  Cross  on  high, 
Its  faint  stars  fading  from  a  solemn  sky. 
Where  mighty  clouds  before  the  dawn  grew  red; — 
Were  these  things  round  me  ?  such  o'er  memory 

sweep 
Wildly,  when  aught  brings  back  that  burial  of  the 

deep. 

LIX. 

Then  the  broad  lonely  sunrise ! — and  the  plash 
Into  the  sounding  waves!  IS) — around  her  head 
They  parted,  with  a  glancing  moment's  flash. 
Then  shut — and  all  was  still.    And  now  thy  bed 
IK  of  their  secrets,  gentlest. Leonor! 
Once  fairest  of  young  brides! — and  never  more, 
Loved  as  thnu  wert,  may  human  tear  be  shed 
Above  thy  rest! — No  mark  the  proud  seas  keep, 
To  show  where  he  that  wept  may  pause  again  to 

weep. 

LX. 

So  the  depths  took  thee  !— Oh!  the  sullen  sense 
Of  desolation  in  that  hour  compress'd ! 
Dust  going  down,  a  speck,  amidst  th'  immense 
And  gloomy  waters,  leaving  on  their  breast 
The  trace  a  weed  might  leave  there  1— Dust!— 

the  thing 

Which  to  the  heart  was  as  a  living  spring 
Of  joy,  with  fcarfiilness  of  love  possess'd. 
Thus  sinking!— Love,  joy,  fear,  all  crush'd  to 

this— 
And  the  wide  Heaven  so  far— so  fathomless  th' 

abyss! 

LXI. 

Where  the  line  sounds  not,  where  the  wrecks 

lie  low, 
What  shall  wake  thence  the  dead  ?— Blest,  blest 

are  they 

That  earth  to  earth  intrust ;  for  they  may  know 
And  tend  the  dwelling  whence  the  sluinberer's 

clay 
Shall  rise  at  last,  nttd   bid  the  young  flowers 

blomn, 

That  waft  a  breath  of  hope  around  the  tomb, 
And  kneel  upon  the  dewy  turf  to  pray! 
Hut  thou,  what  cave  hath  dimly  chairiber'd  thetl 
vain  dreams!— oh!  art  thou  not  where  there  is  no 

more  sea  ?(19) 

LXII. 

The  wind  rose  free  and  singing : — when  for  ever, 
O'er  that  sole  spot  of  all  the  watery  plain, 
I  could  have  bent  my  sii'ht  with  fond  endeavour 
Oown,  where  its  treasure  was,  its  glance  to  strain1 
Then  rose  the  reckless  wind  !—  Before  our  prow' 
The  white  foam  flash'd— ay,  joyously— and  thou 
Wert  left  with  all  the  solitary  "main 
Around  thee— and  thy  beauty  in  my  heart, 
And  thy  meek  sorrowing  love!  oh,  wheie  could 
tiiat  depart  ? 

LXIII. 

I  will  not  speak  of  woe  ;  I  may  not  tell— 
Friend  tells  not  such  to  friend— the  thoucbts 

which  rent 

My  fainting  spirit,  when  its  wild  farewell 
Across  the  billows  to  thy  grave  was  sent. 

19 


Thou,  there  most  lonely !  -He  that  sits  above. 
In  his  calm  glory,  will  forgive  th::  love 
His  creatures  hear  each  other,  ev'n  if  blent 
With  a  vs.n  worship  ;  for  fts  close  is  dim 
Ever  with  grief,  which  leads  the  wrung  soul  back 
to  Him  i 

LXIV 

And  with  a  milder  (King  if  now'I  bear 
To  think  of  thee  in  thv  forsaken  rest. 
If  from  my  heart  be  lifted  the  despair. 
The  sharp  remorse  with  healing  influence  presi'd 
If  the  soft  eyes  that  visit  me  in  sleep 
Look  not  reproach,  tbo'  still  they  seem  to  weep 
It  is  that  He  my  sacrifice  hath  bless'd, 
And  fill'd  my  bosom,  through  its  inmost  cell, 
With  a  deep  chastening  sense  that  all  at  last  is 
well. 

LXV. 

Yes!  thou  art  now— Oh!  wherefore  does  the 

thought 

Of  the  wave  dashing  o'er  thy  long  bright  hair, 
The  sea-weed  into  its  dark  tresses  wrought. 
The  sand  thy  pillow — thou  that  wert  so  fair; 
Come  o'er  me  still  ?—  Karth,  earth!— it  is  the  hold 
Earth  ever  keeps  on  that  of  earthy  mould  ! 
But  than  art  breathing  now  in  purer  air, 
I  well  believe,  and  freed  from  all  of  error. 
Which  blighted  here  the  root  of  thy  sweet  life  with 

terror. 

LXVI. 

And  if  the  love  whirh  here  was  passing  lieht. 
Went  with  what  died  not— Oh!    that   tkis   we 

knew, 

But  this!— that  thrnuL'li  the  silence  of  the  nigh* 
Some  voice  of  all  the  lost  ones  and  the  true. 
Would  speak,  and  say,  if  in  their  far  repose, 
We  are  yet  ausht  of  what  we  were  to  those 
We  call  the  dead!— their  passionate  adieu. 
Was  it  but  breath,  to  perish!— Holier  trust 
Be  mine!— thy  love  is  there,  but  purified  from  dust 

LXVH. 
A  thing  all  heavenly !— clear'd  from  that  which 

hung 

As  a  dim  cloud  between  us,  heart  and  mind  I 
Loosed  from  the  fear,  the  grief,  whose  tendril; 

flung 

A  chain  so  darkly,  wilh  its  growth  entwined. 
This  ismy  hope!— though  when  the  sunset  fades 
When  forests  rock  the  midnight  on  their  shades 
When  tones  of  wail  are  in  the  rising  wind, 
Across  my  spirit,  some  faint  doubt  may  sigh ; 
For  the  strong  hours  will  sway  this  frail  mortality 

LXVIII. 

We  have  been  wandererssincethosedaysof  woe 
Thy  boy  and  I!— As  wild  birds  tend  theiryoung 
So  have  J  tended  him — my  boiiniling  roe! 
The  high  Peruvian  solitudes  among; 
And  o'er  tne  Andes  -torrents  borne  his  form. 
Where  our  frail  bridge  hath  quiver'd  'midst  tho 

storm.— (20) 

— But  there  the  war-notes  of  my  country  rung, 

And,  smitten  deep  of  Heaven  and  man,  I  fled 

To  hide  in  shades  unpierced  a  mark'd  and  wearj 

head. 

LXIX. 

But  he  went  on  in  gladness— that  fair  child  ! 
Save  when  at  times  his  bright  eye  seem'd  to 

dream.  »•• 

And  his  young  lips,  whirh  then  no  longer  smiled, 
Ask'd  of  his  mother! — that  was  hut  n  gleam 
Of  Memory,  fleeting  fast ;  and  then  his  play 
Thro'  the  wide  Llanos  (2  )cheer'd  ana  in  our i fay 
And  by  the  mighty  Oronoco  stream, 
On  whose  lone  margin  we  have  heard  at  morn. 
Prom    the  mysterious   rocks,    tiie   sunrise-music 

borne.  (22) 

LXX. 

So  like  a  spirit's  voice  !  a  harping  tone, 
Lovely,  yet  ominous  to  mortal  ear, 
Such  as  might  reach  us  from  a  world  unknown, 
Troubling  man's  heart  with  thrills  of  joy  »inl 

fear) 


IIEMANS'  POKTICAL  WORKS. 


•Twos  sweet  1— yet  those  deep  southern  shades 

oppress'd 

My  soul  with  stillness,  like  the  calms  that  rest 
On  nielancl;i>ly  waves  :(23)  I  sigh'd  to  hear 
Once  more  earth's  breezy  sounds,   her  foliage 

funn'd, 
\  ud  turn'd  to  seek  the  wildsof  the  red  hunter's  land. 

I.XXI. 

And  we  have  woti  a  hower  of  refuge  now. 
In  this  fresh  waste,  the  breath  of  whose  repose 
Flath  cool'd,  like  dew,  the  fever  of  my  brow. 
And  whose  green  oaks  arid  cedars  round  meclose. 
As  temple-walls,  and  pillars,  that  exclude 
fia rth's  haunted  dreams  from  their  free  solitude ; 
All.  save  the  image  and  the  thought  of  those 
Before  us  gone;  our  loved  (if  early  years, 
Gone  whore  affection's  cup  hath  lost  the  taste  of 
tears. 

LXXII. 

I  see  a  star— eve's  first  horn  !— in  whose  train 
Past  scenes,  words,  looks,  come  back.    The  ar 

rowy  spire 

Of  the  lone  cypress,  as  of  wood-girt  fane, 
llesl  dark  and  still  amidst  a  h-aven  of  fire; 
The  pine  jrives  forth  its  odours,  and  the  lake 
Gleams  like  one  ruby,  and  The  soft  winds  wake, 
Till  every  string  of  nature's  solemn  lyre 
Is  touch'd  to  answer;  its  most  sncret  tone 
IVawn  from  each  tree,  for  each  hath  whispers  all 

its  own 

LXXIH. 

And  hark  !  another  murmur  on  the  air, 
Not  of  the  hidden  rills,  nor  quivering  shades! 
— That  is  the  cataract's,  which  the  breezes  bear, 
Filling  the  leafy  twilight  of  the  Blades 
With  hollow  surge-like  sounds,  as  from  the  bed 
Of  tht.  blue  mournful  seas,  that  keep  the  dead  I 
Bui  they  are  far!— the  low  sun  here  pervades 
Dim  forest-arches,  bathing  with  red  gold 
Their  stems,  till  each  is  made  a  marvel  to  behold. 

LXXIV. 

Gorgeous,  yet  full  of  gloom  !— Tn  such  an  hour, 
The  vesper-melody  of  dyii.g  bells 
Wanders  through  Spain,  from  each  gray  con- 

vent's  tower 

O'er  shining  rivers  pour'd,  and  olive-dells, 
By  every  peasant  heard,  and  muleteer, 
And  hamlet,  round  my  home  :— and  I  am  here. 
Living  again  through  all  my  life's  farewells, 
In  these  vast  woods,  where  farewell  ne'er  was 

spnken, 

And  sole  I  lift  to  Heaven  a  sad  heart— yet  un- 
broken ! 

LXXV. 

In  such  an  hour  are  told  the  hermit's  beads; 
With  the  white  sail  the  seaman's  hymh  floats  by; 
Peace  be  with  all !  whate'er  their  varying  creeds, 
With  all  that  send  up  holy  thoughts  on  high  I 
Come  to  me.  boy  !— by  (Guadalquivir's  vines, 
By  every  stream  of  Spain,  as  day  declines, 
Man's  prayers  are  mingled  in  the  rosy  sky. 
—We,  too  will  pray  ;  nor  yet  unheard,  my  child  I 
vV  Him  whooe  voice  wr.  hear  at  eve  amidst  the  wild. 

LXXVI. 
At  eve?— oh!   through  all  hours!— from  dark 

dreams  oft 

Awakening,  I  look  forth,  and  learn  the  might 
Of  solitude,  while  thou  art  breathing  soft, 
And  low.  my  loved  one!  on  the  breast  of  night: 
I  look  forth  on  the  stars— the  shadowy  sleep 
Of  forests— and  tlie  lake,  whose  gloomy  deep 
ftrids  up  red  sparkles  to  the  fire-flies'  light. 
A  lonely  world  !— ev'n  fearful  to  man's  thought, 
Bui  for  His  present  felt,  whom  here  my  soul  hath 

SOt  "lit. 


NOTES. 


NOTE  1. 

And  fighing  through  the  feathery  cttna,  Ift. 
The  canes  in  some  parts  of  the  American  forests  form  >  thick 
undergrowth  fnr  many  humlrej  miles.— See  Hodgson'i  tette.1  fro* 
tfarlh  America,  vol.  I .  p  242. 

NOTE  2. 

Jtnri  for  their  birth-place  moan,  at  moant  the  octan-iheU. 
Such  a  shell  as  Wordsworth  has  beautifullr  described 

A  rurious  child,  «  ho  oVvelt  upon  a  tract 
Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 
The  convolutions  of  a  smooth  I ipp'd  shell ; 
To  which,  in  silence  hush'd,  his  very  soul 
Liste  ^intently,  and  his  countenance  soon     ^ 
Brighten'd  with  joy  ;  for  murmuring  from  frnhtt 
Were  heard— sonorous  cadences  !  whereby, 
To  his  l-dief,  the  monitor  express'd 

'— Rven  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  Faith."—  The  Ejccwrnen. 

NOTE  3. 

lite  an  oak  before  me,  $  e. 

"  I  recollect  hearing  a  traveller,  of  poetical  temperament,  n> 
prescin'  the  kind  of  horror  he  felt  on  beholding  on  the  banks  of  (M 
Missouri,  an  oak  of  prodigious  size,  which  had  been  in  a  manner 
overpowered  by  an  enormous  wild  grape  vine.  The  vine  had 
clasped  its  huge  folds  round  the  trunk,  and  from  thence  had  wound 
aboutevery  branch  and  t« -if,  until  the  mighty  tree  h»J  withered  IE 
its  embrace.  It  seemed  like  Laocoon  struggling  ineffectually  in  the 
coils  of  the  monster  Python."—  Bractbridge  Hall.  Chapter  011  K> 
rat  Tree*. 

NOT*  4. 

Thou  halt  pcriih'J 

More  nobly  far.  my  Alvar  .'—making  Known 
The  might  of  truth. 

Fora  more  interesting  account  of  the  Spar.ish  Protestants,  and  Ik* 
heroic  devotion  with  which  they  met  the  spirit  of  persecution  IB 
the  sixteenth  century,  see  the  Quarterly  Review,  No.  57,  art.  Qu'n'i 
VM  to  Spam. 

NOTE  5. 

/  luok'd  on  ttoo 

/Wowing  hit  fcotitepi  to  the  tame  dread  ftoet. 
For  the  tame  ftiitt—ha  tiiten  !— 

"  A  priest,  named  Gonzalez,  had,  among  other  proselytes,  ruiml 
over  two  young  females,  his  sisters,  to  the  proiestant  faith.  All 
three  were  confined  in  the  dungeons  of  tin,  Inquis  lion.  The  Icrtur.-, 
repeatedly  applied,  could  not  draw  from  th'em  th«  least  evidence 
against  their  religious  associates.  Every  artifice  was  employed  to 
obtain  a  recantation  from  the  two  sisters,  since  the  constancy  and 
learning  of  Gonzalez  precluded  all  hnpes  of  a  theological  victory. 
Their  answer,  if  not  exactly  logical,  is  wonderfully  simple,  and 
affecting.  '  We  will  die  in  the  faith  of  our  brother :  he  is  loo  wise 
to  be  wrong,  and  too  good  to  deceive  us.'— The  ll.i*e  stakes  on  whith 
they  died  were  near  each  other.  The  priest  had  been  gagged  till  th* 
moment  of  lighting  up  the  wood.  The  few  minutes  that  he  WM 
allowed  to  speak  he  employed  in  comforting  his  sister*,  with  wbom 
he  sung  the  109lh  Psalm,  till  the  flames  smothered  their  «>««." 
Ibid. 

NOTE  6. 

A  hundred  chief i  had  borne,  out  down  In/  you  tothamt. 
The  names,  not  only  of  the  immediate  victims  of  the  InqofaMcn, 
were  devoted  to  infamy,  but  those  of  all  their  relations  were  brand** 
with  the  same  indelible  stain,  which  was  likewise  to  descend  a*  * 
inheritance  to  their  latest  posterity. 

NOTE  7. 

Ttmi  not  tot/Am  the  city— but  in  sight 

Of  the  rttmv-croum'd  rierras. 

The  piles  erected  for  these  eiecutions  were  without  the  fc»»»». 
and  the  final  scene  of  an  Auto  da  Fe  was  sometimes,  from  the  )eB(tft 
of  the  preceding  ceremonies,  delayed  till  midnight. 

NOTE  8. 

7  would  hmr  cnll'd,  adjuring  the  dark  clauA, 
To  themcat  ancient  Htavrns  I  would  haw  lati— 
"Speak  tome!  ihow  me  truth!" 

Tar  one  of  the  most  powerful  and  impressive  picrores  pertans 
erer  drawn,  of  a  voung  mind  struggling  against  rnbit  «nd  tupcn*. 
lion  in  its  first  aspirations  after  truth,  see  the  admirable  Letten  from 
Spain  try  Don  Lcucodio  Dollado. 

NOTE  9. 

rV  thirl  ye  girt  me  round,  ye  lonr-dtfortej  ' 

Diat image  form — with  crom,  and  shield,  ana  crest. 

*  You  walk  from  end  to  end  over  a  floor  of  tomb^toties,  into*  m 
brass  with  Ihe  forms  of  the  deoarted,  mitres,  and  crotien,  and 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


291 


•pears  and  shields,  and  helmets,  all  mingled  together— all  worn  into 
glass-like  sinonihiiess  by  Hie  feel  and  the  knees  of  lnng-<lepar!ed  wor- 
shippers. ArnunJ.  oil  every  side,  each  in  their  separate  chapel, 
tleep  undisturbed  frnni  age  to  age  tlie  venerable  ashes  of  the  holiest 
or  the  loltiest  ihnt  f  old  came  thitherto  worship— their  images  and 
their  dying  prayers  sculpture!  among  the  resting  places  of  Iheir  n- 
•urns.  '—From  a  beautiful  description  of  ancient  Spanish  Cathe- 
anls,  in  Peter3!  Later*  to  liu  K.ntJM. 

NOTE  1(X 

With  «,«!,  if  tune  lightning  laughter  hath  btguiled 
J  ti.ovjiind  pant;t. 

El' lampeggia' d«  1' angel  ico  riso."— Pctranh. 

NOT?    11. 

Mifhty  thadet 

Wnmnt  thai  forgema  tracery  oer  thy  head, 
W,th  Ihelght  m«»,ng  thr.mgh  thdr  high  arcida, 
Jb  th  mgh  a  fiitlar'd  cloitt  rr't 

"  Sometimes  iheir  discourse  was  held  in  the  deep  shades  of  moss- 
frown  forests,  wli,«e  gloom  and  interlaced  bough*  first  suggested 
that  Gothic  architecture,  U-neath  whose  piinted  archc-.  where  the> 
hud  studied  ami  prayed,  the  parli-colnured  windows  "shed  a  tinged 
light:  scenes  which 'the  gleams  of  sunshine,  penetrating  the  dtep 
foliage,  anJ  nVkenni  .>n  the  variega'ed  lurf  below,  might  have 
recalled  to  their  memory.''—  It'ikltr't  ("/ration  an  the  Landing  of 
Ih,  Pilgrim  Fall«r<  „.  .\\u,  K,,gland.-*x  Hsdftm'l  Letter* 
from  Jvurt/i.jm,,,.fl,  vol.  ii.  p.  305. 

NOTB    12. 

Brmf  n«  the  ii/uiuim;  of  the  torrent-water. 
With  yrt  a  iirartr  tvxU—frah  breeze,  awake  ! 
The  varying  sounds  of  waterfalls  are  thus  alluded  to  in  in  Inte- 
resting work  nf  Mrs.  Grant's.     "  On  the  opposite  side  the  view  wai 
bounded   bv  steep  hills,  covered    with  lofty  pines,  from  which  a 
waterfall  descended,  which  not  only  gave  animation  to  the  sylvan 
eceoe,  but  was  the  best  barometer  imaginable  ;  foretelling  by  its  va- 
ied  and  inleiligble  sounds  every  approaching  change,  not  only  of 
JM  weather,  but  of  the  wind."1— Jfemoirt  of  an  American  Lady, 
rat  i.  p.  143. 

NOTE  13. 


The  circular  raiabows,  occasionally  seen  anvng  the  Ande*.  art 
fcstribed  by  l.lioj. 

NOTB  14. 

Bui  10  my  tpirit't  frvei'd  louring*  wrought, 
WaAomig,  it  might  U,  to  Ike  /ami  sod  tounet, 
That  /ro>n  fit  darknat  of  the  wat:i  ttuy  brought 
A  L>v'<i  Jc«?ie  t  nrnd  me,  um/./y  arvttitd. 

Many  striking  instances  of  the  vividness  with  which  the  mind, 
when  strongly  excited,  lias  been  knot*  n  to  renovate  past  impressions, 
and  embody  thrui  into  visible  imagery,  are  noticed  and  accounted 
for  in  Dr.  Hiuljert's  Philutoflnj  of  Apparitioni.  The  following 
illustrative  passage  is  quoted  in  the  same  work,  from  the  writings  of 
the  late  Dr.  r'ernar.  '•  I  remember  that,  alx.nl  the  age  of  fourteen, 
it  was  a  source  of  great  amusement  to  myself,  if  1  had  been  viewing 
any  interesting  object  in  the  course  of  the  day,  such  as  a  romantic 
ruin,  a  tine  seat,  or  a  review  of  a  brkly  of  troops,  as  soon  as  evening 
came  on,  if  I  had  occasion  to  go  into  a  dark  room,  the  whole  scene 
was  brought  before  my  eyes  with  »  b  illiancy  iqtial  to  what  it  had 
possessed  in  daylight,  and  remained  visible  for  several  minutes.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  dismal  and  frightful  in.aees  have  been  thus  pre- 
sented to  young  persons  after  scents  of  domestic  affliction  or  public 
horror." 

The  following  passage  from  the  "  Alcszar  of  Seville/'  a  tale,  or 
historical  sketch,  by  the  author  of  l)oblado>s  le'ters,  affords  a  further 
illustration  of  this  subject :— ••  When  descending  fast  into  the  vale 
of  years,  I  strongly  fix  my  mind's  eye  on  those  narrow,  shady,  silent 
streets,  where  I  breathed  tlie  scented  air  which  came  rustling  through 
the  surrounding  groves;  where  the  fot>tsle|is  re-echoed  from  the 
dean  watered  |»rches  of  the  houses,  and  where  every  object  spoke 

of  quiet  and  contentment ; the  objects  around  me  begin  to 

lade  into  a  mere  delusion  and  not  only  the  thoughts,  but  the  external 
sensations,  which  I  then  experienced,  revive  with  a  reality  that  almost 
makes  me  shudder— it  has  so  much  the  character  of  a  trance,  or 
Ttsion." 

NOTB  15 

ffor  the  faint  ftmeer-trenii,  at  they  com*  anJ  go 
In  the  toft  air,  like  muiic  wandering  ty. 
44  for  because  the  breath  of  dowers  is  farre  sweeter  in  the  air* 
(where  it  comes  and  goes  like  the  warbling  of  music)  than  in   the 
hud,  therefore  nothing  is  more  fit  for  that  dflight  than  to  know 
what  be  the  flowers  and  p'ants  which  doe  bes*  perfume  the  aire."— 
Lara  iacou's  Euay  on  Gaidcnt. 

NOTB  16. 

/  taw  fhee  ikine 
Once  more,  m  thy  tem 
OfeulfentCronf 


14  The  pleasure  we  left  on  onscovering  the  South  .TII  Cross  was 
warmly  shared  by  such  of  the  crew  as  had  lived  in  the  colonies.  In 
the  solitude  of  the  seas,  we  hail  a  star  as  a  friend  from  whom  we 
have  long  been  separated.  Among  the  Portuguese  and  tl;e  Spaniards, 
peculiar  motives  seem  to  increase  this  feeling;  a  religious  »tnlimenl 
.laches  them  to  a  constellation,  the  form  of  which  recalls  the  sin 
if  the  faith  planted  by  their  ancestors-  in  the  deserts  of  the  New 

World It  has  been  observed  at  what  hour  of  the  night,  in 

different  seasons,  the  Cross  ol  the  South  is  erect  or  inclined.  It  is  a 
time-piece  that  advances  very  regularly  near  four  minu  es  a  day, 
and  no  other  group  of  s'ars  exhibits  to  the  naked  eye  an  observation 
of  time  so  easily  mide.  How  often  have  we  heard  oui  guides  el- 
claim,  in  the  savannas  of  Venezuela,  or  in  the  desert  extending  from 
Lima  to  Truxillo,  "  Midnight  is  past,  the  cross  begin?  to  bend  !• 
How  often  these  words  reminded  us  of  that  affecting  scene  where 
Paul  and  Virginia,  sealed  near  the  source  of  the  rivr:  Lataniera, 
conversed  together  for  the  last  time,  and  where  the  o.j  man,  it  tha 
sight  of  the  Southern  Cross,  warns  them  that  it  ii  •  jjie  to  separata." 
—Dt  Humboldl'l  Travels. 

NOTE    17. 

Songt  nf  the  orange  bower,  the  Moouh  nolrf, 
The  "  Rio  Verde." 

"  Rio  verde,  rio  verde,"  the  popular  Spanish  romance,  known  to 
the  English  reader  in  Percy',  transl.ition. 
"  Gentle  river,  gentle  river, 
Lo,  thy  strear  s  are  s'ain'd  with  gore 
Many  a  brave  and  noble  captain 
Floats  along  thy  willow'd  shore,"  4.C.  kc 

NOTE  18. 

Then  the  broad  timely  »unri«.'— and  the  plaih 

Into  the  founding  waves  .'— 

De  Humboldt,  in  describing  the  burial  of  a  young  Asturian  at  sea 
mentions  the  entreaty  of  the  officiating  priest,  that  the  body,  whid 
had  been  brought  upon  deck  during  the  night,  might  not  be  com 
mitted  to  Hie  waves  until  after  suhriw.  in  order  to  pay  it  the  la* 
rites  according  to  the  usage  of  the  Romish  church. 

NOTE  19. 

M/itf  thau.  not  where  there  it  no  more  tea  » 
»  And  there  was  no  more  sea."— Ker.  chap.  rxi.  v.  I. 

NOTE  M. 

jfnrf  o'rr  the  Jjnda-torrent*  liome  hit  farm, 
Where  our  frail  liridge  hath  q«ii>er'a  'midit  the  itnrm. 
The  bridges  over  many  deep  chasms  among  the  Andes  are  pendM 
lous,  and   formed  only  of  the  fibres  of  equinoctial   plants.    The* 
tremulous  motion  has  afforded  a  striking  image  to  one  of  the  stanza 
in  'Gertrude  of  Wyoming." 

"  Anon  some  wilder  portraiture  he  draws, 
Of  nature's  savage  glories  he  would  speak; 
The  loneliness  of  earth,  that  overawes, 
Where,  resting  by  the  tomb  of  old  Cacique. 
The  lama-driver,  on  Peruyia's  peak. 

But  storks  that  to  the  boundless  forest  shriek, 
Or  wild-cane  arch,  hieh  flung  o'er  gulf  profouivl, 
That  fluctuates  when  the  storms  of  El  Dorado  soul 

NOTB  SI. 

Jnd  then  hit  pity 

Through  the  vndt  Llanoi  chea-'d  again  nus  uj«y. 
Hanoi,  or  savannas,  the  great  plains  in  South  Amend*. 

NOTE  22. 

And  hu  the  mighty  Oronoeo  itream. 
On  ti'hon  lone  margin  we  have  heard  at  morn 
From  the  myiterinut  rockt,  the  mnr'te  muiic  IK/TIM. 
De  Humboldt  speaks  of  these  rock*  on  the  shores  of  the  OrnnM*. 
Travellers  have  heard  from  time  to  time  subterraneous  sounds  of*. 
roeu  from  them  at  sun-rise,  resembling  th«se  of  an  orran.    H>  *•» 
'•eves  in  the  existence  of  this  mysterious  music,  although  not  ion* 
-Vie  enough  to  have  heard  it  hi'iw-lf,  and  thinks  thj  t  it  may  be  p» 
duced  by  currents  of  air  issuing  through  the  crtvioei. 

NOTB  23. 

Yet  than  deep  ttiultiern  thada  oppreu'd 

My  mil  with  t  ill-nets. 

The  same  distinguished  Irave""  '-»quentlT  alludes  to  the  extrens* 
,tillness  of  the  air  in  the  equat,.i«l  regions  of  the  new  continent 
and  iwrtkularly  on  the  thi-  Xly  wooded  shores  of  the  Oronoeo.  "  fc 
this  neighbourhood,"  »•  -  <•  "DO  brealh  of  wind  e«r 


SCENES   AND   HYMNS   OF  LIFE. 


ghe 

A    SCENE   OP  THE   DAYS  OF   QUEEN    MART. 


Thy  bee 

h  all  at  once  spread  oter  with  a  calm 
More  beautiful  than  strep,  or  mirth,  or  joy, 
1  am  no  more  dUcnrnolate. Wilton. 


Scene  in  a  Prison. 
EniTii  alone. 

Edith.   Morn  once  again  !  Morn  in  the  lone  dim 

cell. 

The  cavern  of  the  prisoner's  fever  drpnm. 
And  morn  on  all  the  preen  rejoicing  hills, 
And  the  bri»ht  wavers  round  the  prisoner's  home 
Par,  far  away  !     Now  wakes  the  early  bird 
That  in  tin-  lime's  transparent  foliage  sings, 
dose  to  my  cottage  lattice — lie  awakes, 
To  stir  the  young  leaves  with  his  gushing  soul, 
And  to  call  forth  rich  answers  of  delight 
Prom  voices  buried  in  a  thousand  trees. 
Through  the  dim  starry  hour?    Now  doth  the  kike 
Darken  and  flash  in  rapid  interchange 
Unto  the  matin  breeze;  and  the  blue  mist 
Rolls,  like  a  fnrline  banner,  from  the  brows 
Of  the  forth-gleaming  hills  and  woods  that  rise 
As  if  new-born      Bright  world!  and  Inm  here! 
And  thou,  O  thou !  th'  awakening  thought  of  whom 
Was  more  than  day-spring,  dearer  than  tlie  sun, 
Herbert !  the  very  glance  of  whose  clear  eys 
A  ade  my  soul  melt  away  to  one  pure  fount 
W  living,  bounding  gladness  ! — where  art  thoul 
,          My  friend!  my  only  and  my  blessed  love! 
Herbert,  my  soul's  companion  ! 

[GOMEZ,  a  Spanish  priest,  enters 

Gomn.  Daughter,  hail  t 

*  briii"  thee  tidings. 

Edith.  Heaven  will  aid  my  soul 

Calmly  to  meet  whate'er  thy  lips  announce. 

Dome:.     Nay,   lift  a  song  of  thanksgiving  to 

Heaven, 

And  bow  thy  knee  down  for  deliverance  won  I 
Hast  thou  not  pray'd  for  life  ?  and  wouldst  tbou  not 
Once  more  be  tree  1 

Edith.  Have  1  not  pray'd  for  life  I 

I.  that  am  no  beloved  !  that  love  again 
With  such  a   heart  of  tendrils?    Heaven!    tko* 

know'st 

The  gushings  of  my  prayer  !    And  would  I  not 
Once  more  be  free  ?    I,  that  have  been  a  child 
Of  breezy  hill*,  a  playmate  of  the  fawn 
In  ancient  woodlands,  from  mine  infancy! 
A  watcher  of  the  clou, Is  and  of  the  stars, 
(tenealh  the  adoring  silence  of  the  night; 
And  a  glad  wanderer  with  the  happy  streams. 
Whose  laughter  tills  the  mountains!   Oh  !  to  hear 
Their  blessed  sounds  again! 

Gomel.  Rejoice  !  rejoice ! 

Our  Queen  hath  pity,  maiden,  on  thy  youth; 
Site  wills  not  thou  shouldsl  perish. — 1  am  come 
(998) 


To  loose  thy  bonds. 

E'litk.  And  shall  I  ?r>e  Aw  face, 

And  shall  I  listen  to  his  voice  again, 
And  lay  my  head  upon  his  faithful  breast. 
Weeping  there  in  my  gladness  ?     H'il/  this  be  7— 
Blessings  upon  thee,  father!  my  unirk  heart 
Hathdeem'd  thee  stern — say.  wit  tliou  not  r'orgirt 
The  wayward  child,  too  long  in  sunshine  rear'd. 
Too  Ion;:  unused  to  chastening  1  Will  ihou  not?— 
Bui  Herbert.  Herbert!  Oh,  my  soul  hall)  nuli'd 
On  a  swift  gust  of  sudden  joy  away. 
Forgetting  all  beside  ?    Speak,  father,  speak  I 
Herbert — is  he  loo  free  ? 

Gnmn.  His  freedom  Ik-s 

In  his  own  choice— a  boon  like  thine. 

Edith.  Thy  words 

Pall  changed  a"d  eold  upon  my  boding  heart. 
Leave  not  this  dim  suspense  oVrshadontng  me. 
Let  all  be  told. 

Gomez.  The  monarchs  of  the  enrih 

Shower  not  their  illicitly  eiff--  without  a  claim 
Unto  some  token  of  true  vassalage, 
Some  murk  of  homage. 

FMl-h.  Oh!  unlike  to  Ifim, 

Who  freely  pours  the  joy  of  sunshine  forth. 
And  the  bright  quickening   rain,   on   those,  who 

serve 
And  those  who  heed  him  not  I 

Gomez,  (laying  n  pajiei  before  her.)  Is  it  so  muck 
That  thine  own  hand  should  set  the  crowning  seal 
To  thy  deliverance  ?     Look,  thy  task  is  here  I 
Sign  but  these  words  for  liberty  and  life. 

Etlith,  (eraminixf  and  then  throwing  it  from  her.) 
Sign  but  these  words!  and  wherefore  saitlst  thou 

not, 

"  Be  but  a  traitor  to  God's  light  within  ?"— 
Cruel,  oh, cruel!  thy  dark  sport  hath  been 
With  a  young  bosom's  hope  !     Farewell,  glad  life! 
Bright  opening  path  to  love  and  home,  tar,  well  I 
And  thou— now  leave  me  with  my  God  alone! 

Gomez.     Dost  Ihou  reject  Heaven's  mercy  ? 

Edith.  Heaven's  !  doth  Heart* 

Woo  the  free  spirit  for  dishonour'd  breath 
To  sell  its  birthright  ?  doth  Hear  en  set  a  price 
On  the  clear  jewel  of  unsullied  faith. 
And  the  bright  calm  of  conscience  T  Priest,  away, 
God  hath  been  wiih  me  'midst  UIL-  holiness 
Of  England's  mountains — not  in  sport  alone 
I  trod   their  heath-flowers  — but   high   thought* 

rose  up 

From  the  broad  shadow  of  the  enduring  rockak 
And  wander'd  with  me  into  solemn  glens. 
Where  my  soul  felt  the  beauty  of  His  word. 
I  have  heard  voices  of  immortal  truth, 
Blent  with  the  everlasting  torrent-sounds 
That  make  the  deep  hills  tremble.— Shall  I  ouaiM 
Shall  Kng land's   daughter  sink  ?  —  No!    He  wlx 

there 

Spoke  to  my  heart  in  silence  and  in  storm. 
Will  not  forsake  his  child  \ 

Qnmez,  (turning from  her.)    Then  perish!  loat 
In  thine  own  blindness' 

Edith,  (suddenly  thromnff  herself  at  his  feet.) 
Cither  !  hear  me  yet  t 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Oh!  if  the  kindly  touch  of  human  love 
Hath  ever  warin'd  thy  breast 

Otnxei.  Away— away  I 

I  know  not  love. 

Editk      Yet  heart  if  thou  hast  known 
The  tender  sweetness  of  a  mother's  voice — 
If  the  true  vigil  of  affection's  eye 
Hath  wutcU'd  thy  childhood  —  if  fond  tears  have 

e'er 

Been  shower'd  upon  thy  head— if  parting  worde 
E'er  pierced  thy  spirit  with  their  tenderness — 
Let  me  but  look  upon  Ma  face  once  more. 
Let  me  but  say— Farewell,  my  soul's  belovedl 
And  1  will  bless  thee  still! 

Oomei,  (aside.)  Her  soul  may  yield. 

Beholding  him  in  fetters  ;  woman's  faith 
Will  bend  to  woman's  love — 

Thy  prayer  is  heard 
Follow,  and  I  will  guide  thee  to  his  cell. 

Edith.    Oh  !  stormy  hour  of  agoi  v  and  joy  1 
But  I  shall  see  him— 1  shall  hear  Ins  voice! 

f  Thy  go  out. 


SCENE  II. 
Another  Part  of  the  Prisf*. 

HERBERT— EDITH. 

Editk.  Herbert,  my  Herbert !  is  it  thus  we  meet? 
Herbert.  Tli«  voice  of  my  own  Edith!   Can  such 

joy 

Light  up  this  place  of  death  ?     And  do  I  feel 
Thy  breath  of  love  once  more  upon  my  cheek. 
And  the  soft  floating  of  Ihy  gleatny  hair. 
My  blessed  Edith!  Oh!  so  pale!  so  changed ! 
My  flower,  my  blighted   flower  1  thou  that  wert 

made 

For  the  kind  fostering  of  sweet  summer  airs, 
How  hath  the  storm  been  with  thee!— Lay  thy 

head 

On  this  true  bieast  again,  my  gentle  MM! 
And  tell  me  all. 

Edilk.  Yes,  take  me  to  thy  heart. 

For  T  am  weary,  weary  1    Oh!  that  heart! 
The  kind,  the  brave,  the  tender  i— how  my  soul 
Haiti  sicken'd  in  vain  yearnings  for  the  balm 
Of  rest  on  that  warm  heart!— full,  dee|i  repose  1 
One  draught  of  dewy  stillness  after  storm! 
And  God  hath  pitied  me,  and  I  am  here— 
Yet  once  before  1  die  ! 

Herbert.  They  cennat  slay 

One, young  and  meek,  and  beautiful  as  thou! 
My  broken  lilyl    Surely  the  tone  days 
Of  the  dark  cell  have  been  enough  fur  thee ! 
Oh!  thou  shall  live,  and  raise  thy  gracious  head 
Vet  in  calm  sunshine. 

Edith.  Herbert !  I  have  cast 

The  snare  of  proffer'd  mercy  from  my  soul. 
This  very  hour.    God  to  the  weak  hath.given 
Victory  o'er  life  and  death!— The  tempter's  price 
Hath  been  rejected— Herbert.  I  must  die. 

Herbert.    O  Edith  !  Edith  !  I,  that  li-rt  thee  first 
From  the  old  path  wherein  thy  fathers  trod— 
I,  that  received  it  as  an  angel's  task, 
To  pour  the  fresh  light  on  thine  ardent  soul. 
Which  drank  it  as  a  sun-flower— /have  been 
Thy  guide  to  death! 

Erfrf  A.  To  Heaven  !  my  guide  to  Heaven 

JWv  noble  and  my  blessed  !    Oh !  look  up. 
Be  strong,  rejoice,  my  Herbert!    But  for  thee 
How  could  my  spirit  tmve  sprung  up  to  God, 
Throned  the  (lark  cloud  which  o'er  its  vision  hung, 
Tlie  niffht  of  fear  and  error?  thy  dear  band 
First  raised   that  veil,  and  show'd  the    gloriou 

world 

My  heritage  beyond— Friend  1  love  and  friend  1 
II  was  as  if  thou  gavest  me  mine  own  soul 
In   tltose   bright  days!    Yeu1    a  new  earth  and 

heaven, 

And  a  new  sense  for  all  their  splendours  fcorn, 
Thece  were  thy  gifts!  and  shall  I  not  rejoice 
To  die   upholding  their  immortal  worth. 
Even  for  thy  sake  ?    Yes,  fill'd  with  nobler  life 
By  thy  pure  love,  made  holy  to  the  truth, 
Lay  me  uvon  the  altar  of  til  y  God. 


The  first  fruits  of  thy  ministry  below; 
Thy  work,  thine  own  1 

Herbert.  My  love,  my  sainted  lov« 

Oh!  I  can  almost  yield  thee  unto  heaven  ; 
Earth  would  but  sully  thee!    Thou  must  depart. 
With  the  rich  crown  of  thy  celestial  gifts 
Untainted  by  a  breath  !    And  yet,  alas  I 
Edith  !  what  dreams  of  holy  happiness. 
Even  for  this  world,  were  ours '  the  low,  sweet 

home — 

The  pastoral  dwelling,  with  its  ivied  porch, 
And  lattice  gleaming  through  the  leaves— and  tnow, 
My  life's  companion  !— Thou,  beside  my  hearth. 
Sitting  with  thy  meek  eyes,  or  greeting  me 
Back  from  brief  absence  with  thy  bounding  step, 
In  lh(;  green  meadow  path,  or  by  my  side 
Kneeling— thy  calm  uplifted  face  to  mine. 
In  the  sweet  hush  of  prayer !  and  now — oh!  now— 
How  have  we  loved— liow  fervently,  how  long  I 
And  t.hiis  to  be  the  close ! 

Edith.  Oh !  bear  me  up 

Against  the  unutterable  tenderness 
Of  earthly  love,  my  God  !  in  the  sick  hour 
Of  dying  human  hope,  forsake  me  riot ! 
Herbert,  my  Herbert!  even  from  that  sweet  home 
Where  it  had  been  too  much  of  Paradise 
To  dwell  with  thee — even  thence  the  oppressor's 

hand 

Might  soon  have  torn  us;  or  the  touch  of  death 
Might  one  day  there  have  left  a  widow'd  heart, 
Pining  alone.     We  will  go  hence,  beloved ! 
To  the  bright  country,  where  the  wicked  cease 
From  troubling,  where  the  spoiler  hath  no  sway  ; 
Where  no  harsh  voice  of  worldliness  disturbs 
The  Sabbath-peace  of  love.    We  will  go  hence, 
Together  with  our  wedded  souls,  to  Heaven 
No  solitary  lingering,  no  cold  void. 
No  dying  of  the  heart !    Our  lives  have  been 
Lovely  through  faithful  love,  and  in  our  death* 
We  will  not  be  divided. 

Herbert.  Oh  !  the  peace 

Of  God  is  lying  far  within  thine  eyes. 
Far  tnder  i»ath  rhe  mist  of  human  tears. 
Lighting  those  blue  still  depths,  and  sinking  tti«n«« 
On  my  worn  heart.    Now  am  I  girt  with  strength. 
Now  I  can  bless  thee,  my  true  bride  for  Heaven! 
Edith.    And  let  me  bless  thee,  Herbert!  in  tint 

hour 

Let  my  soul  bless  thee  with  prevailing  might ! 
Oh!  thou  hast  loved  me  nobly!  thou  didst  tak« 
An  orphan  to  thy  heart,  a  thing  unprized 
And  desolate;  and  thou  didst  guard  her  there, 
That  lone  and  lowly  creature,  as  a  pearl 
Of  richest  price  ;  and  thou  didst  till  her  soul 
With  the  high  gifts  of  an  immortal  wealth. — 
I  bless,  I  bless  thee !    Never  did  thine  eye 
Look  on  me  but  in  glistening  tenderness, 
My  gentle  Herbert !    Never  did  thy  voice 
But  in  affection's  deepest  music  sp^ak 
To  thy  poor  Edith  !    Never  was  thy  heart 
Aught  but  the  kindliest  sheltering  home  to  mine, 
My  faithful,  generous  Herbert !    Woman's  peace 
Ne'er  on  a  breast  so  tender  and  so  true 
Reposed  before.— Alas  !  thy  showering  tears 
Fall  fast  upon  my  cheek— forgive,  forgive! 
I  should  not  melt  thy  noble  strength  away 
In  such  an  hour. 

Herbert.  Sweet  Edith,  no  !  my  heart 

Will  fail  no  more  ;  God  bears  me  up  through  tlwe, 
And,  fey  thy  words,  and  by  the  heavenly  light 
Shining  around  thee,  through  thy  very  tears, 
Will  yet  sustain  me  1    Let  us  call  on  him! 
Let  us  kneel  down,  as  we  have  knelt  so  oft. 
Thy  pure  cheek  touching  mine,  and  call  on  li.  n>, 
Th'  all-pitying  One,  to  aid. 

[They  kit ul. 
O,  look  on  u«, 

Father  above  !  in  tender  mercy  look 
On  as.  thy  children  1  through  th'  o'ersfiadowinj 

cloud 

Of  sorrow  and  mortality,  send  aid, 
Save  or  w«  perish  !  we  would  pour  our  live* 
Forth  as  a  joyous  offering  to  thy  truth. 
But  we  are  weak — we,  the  bruised  reeds  of  t-ajili, 
Aro  sway'd  by  every  gust     Forgive,  O  God  I 
Tho  fclindncMi  of  cur  passionate  desire*, 


294 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  fainting  of  our  hearts.  thi>  lingering  thoughts. 

Which  cleave  to  dust !    Forgive  the  strife  ;  accept 

The  sacrifice,  though  dim  with  mortal  tears, 

From  mortal  pangs  wrung  forth  !   Ami  if  our  souls, 

In  all  the  fervent  dreams,  the  fond  excess, 

Of  their  lone-clasping  love,  have  wander'd  not, 

Holiest'  from  thee ;  oh!  take  them  to  thyself, 

After  the  fiery  trial,  take  tln'in  home 

To  dwell,  in  that  imperishable  bond 

Before  thee  link'd.  for  ever.    Hear,  through  Him 

Who  meekly  drank  the  cup  of  agony, 

Whr   pnss'd   through  death  to  victory,  hear  and 

sa».!! 

Pity  us.  Father!  we  are  girt  with  snares; 
father  in  Heaven  !  we  have  no  help  but  thee. 

[They  rist. 

Is  thy  soul  strengthen'd,  my  beloved  one  ? 
O  Edith!  couldst  thou  lift  up  thy  sweet  voice, 
And  sing  me  that  old  solemn-breathing  hymn 
We  love.l  in  happier  days— the  strain  which  tells 
Of  the  dread  conflict  in  the  olive  shade  ? 

[  She  singt. 

He  knelt,  the  Saviour  knelt  and  pray'd, 
When  but  his  Father's  eye 

Ixmk'd  through  the  lonely  garden's  shade 
On  that  dread  agony; 

The  Lord  of  All  above,  beneath, 

Was  bow'd  with  sorrow  unto  death. 

"The  sun  set  in  a  fearful  hour. 

The  stars  might  well  grow  dim, 
When  this  mortality  had  power 

So  to  o'ershadow  HIM  ! 

That  He  who  gave  man's  breath,  might  know 
The  very  depths  of  human  woe. 

Me  proved  them  all!  the  doubt,  the  strife. 

The  faint  perplexing  dread. 
The  mists  that  hang  o'er  parting  life, 

All  gather'd  round  his  head; 
And  the  Deliverer  knelt  to  pray- 
Yet  pass'd  it  not,  that  cup,  away! 

It  pass'd  not — though  the  stormy  wave 

Had  sunk  beneath  his  tread  ; 
It  pass'il  not — though  to  him  the  grave 

Had  yielded  up  its  dead. 
But  there  was  sent  him  from  on  high 
A  gift  of  strength  for  man  to  die. 
And  was  the  sinless  thus  beset 
With  anguish  and  dismay  ? 
How  may  wt  meet  our  conflict  yet, 

In  the  dark  narrow  way  ? 
Thro'  Him— Thro'  Him,  that  path  who  trod— 
Save,  or  we  perish,  Son  of  God  I 
»'nrk!  hark'  the  parting  signal. 

[Prison  attendants  enter 
Fare-thee-welll 

O  thoi»  unutterably  loved,  farewell  I 
Let  our  hearts  bow  to  God ! 

Herbert.  One  last  embrace — 

On  earth  the  last!— We  have  eternity 
For  love's  communion  yet!— Fare  well— farewell  !— 
\She  in  ltd  rat. 
Tis  o'er— the  bitterness  of  death  is'  past ! 


FIXJWERS  AND  MUSIC  IN  A  ROOM  OF 
SICKNESS. 


Once,  when  I  look'd  along  »he  laughing  earth, 

Vp  the  blue  heavens,  and  through  the  middle  air, 

Joyfully  ringing  with  the  skylark's  long, 

1  wept !  and  thought  how  sad  for  one  to  young, 

To  bid  farewell  to  so  much  happiness.    • 

But  Christ  hath  call'd  me  from  this  lower  world, 

Delightful  though  it  be. Wittm. 


Apartment  in  em  English  Coantry-Ho-nse. — LILIAN 
reclining,  tu  sleeping  on  a  couch.  Her  Mother 
witching  beside  her.  Her  Sister  enters  withfatcera. 

Mather.    Hush,  lightly  tread!  still  tranquilly  she 
sleeps, 


As,  when  a  baue,  1  rnck'd  her  on  mj  heart. 
I've  watch'd,  suspending  e'en  my  breath,  in  fear 
To  break  the  heavenly  spell.     Move  silently  I 
And    on!   those  (lowers!  dear  Jessy,  bear  them 

hence— 

Dost  thou  forget  the  passion  of  quick  tears 
That  shook  her  trembling   frame,   when  last  »•« 

brought 

The  roses  to  her  couch  ?    Dost  thou  not  know 
What  sudden  longings  for  the  woods  and  hill:). 
Wiiere  once  her  Free  steps  moved  so  buoyantly, 
These  leaves  and  odours  with  strangu  influence 

wake 
In  her  fast- kind  led  soul? 

Jessy.  Oh!  she  would  pine. 

Were  the  wild  scents  and  glowing  hues  withheld, 
Mother!  far  more  than  now  her  spirit  yearns 
For  the  blue  sky,  the  singing  birds  and  brooks, 
And  swell   of  breathing   turf,  whose   lightsome 

spring 
Th  -ir  blooms  recall. 

Lilian,  (raising-  herself.)  Is  that  my  Jessy's  voice? 
It  woke  me  not.  sweut  mother !     I  had  lain 
Silently,  visited  by  waking  dreams. 
Yet  conscious  of  thy  brooding  watchfulness. 
Long  ere  I  heard  the  sound.     Hath  site  brought 

flowers  ? 

Nay,  fear  not  now  thy  fond  child's  waywardness. 
My  thoughtful  mother!— in  her  chasten'd  soul 
The  passion-colour*!  images  of  life. 
Which,  with  their  sudden  startling  flush,  awoke 
So  oft  those  burning  tears,  have  died  away; 
And  night  is  there— still  solemn,  holy  night. 
With  all  her  stars,  anil  with  the  gentle  tuoe 
Of  many  fountains,  low  and  musical, 
By  day  unheard 

Mother.  And  wherefore  night,  my  child  1 

Phaii  art  a  creature  all  of  life  and  dawn. 
And  from  thy  couch  of  sickness  yet  shalt  rise. 
And  walk  forth  with  the  day-spring. 

Lilian.     "  Hope  it  nol  • 

Dream  it  no  more,  my  mother!  there  are  things 

nown  but  to  God,  and  to  the  parting  soul, 
Which  feels  his  thrilling  summons. 

But  my  word* 

Too  much  o'ershadow  those  kind  loving  eyes. 
Bring  me  thy  flowers,  dear  Jessy !    Ab !  thy  step, 
Well  do  I  see,  hath  not  alone  explored 
The  garden  bowers,  but  freely  visited 
Our  wilder  haunts.  This  foam-like  meadow  sweet 
Is  from  the  cool  green  shadowy  river  nook, 
Where  the  stream  chimes  around  tb'  old  mossy 

stones 

With  sounds  like  childhood's  laughter.  Is  that  spot 
Lovely  as  when  our  glad  eyes  hail'd  it  fin  t? 
Still  doth  the  golden  willow  bend,  and  sweep 
The  clear  brown  wave  with  every  passing  wind? 
And  thro'  the  shallower  waters,  where  they  lie 
Dimpling  in  licbt,  do  the  vein'd  pebbles  gleam 
Like  bedded  gems?     And  the  white  butterflies. 
From  shade  to  sun-streak  are  they  glancing  still 
Among  the  poplar-boughs  7 

Jessy.  All,  all  is  there 

Which  glad  midsummer's  wealthiest  hours  can 

bring : 

All,  sa  v>  the  soul  of  all,  thy  lightening  smile  t 
Therefore  I  stood  in  sadness,  'midst  the  leaves, 
And  caught  an  under-music  of  lament 
In  the  stieam's  voice  ;  but  Nature  waits  thee  still 
And  for  thy  coming  piles  a  fairy  throne 
Of  richest  moss. 

Lilian.  Alas!  it  may  not  be! 

My  soul  hath  sent  her  farewell  voieelessly, 
To  all  these  blessed  haunts  of  song  and  thought; 
Vet  not  the  less  i  love  to  look  on  these, 
Their  dear  memorials  :  strew  them  o'er  my  couch, 
Till  it  grow  like  a  forest-bank  in  spring. 
All  flush'd  with  violets  and  anemones. 
Ah  '  the  pale  brier  rose  !  totieh'd  so  tenderly. 
As  a  pure  ocean-shell,  with  faintest  red, 
Melting  away  to  pearliness  !— I  know 
How  its  long' light  festoons  o'erarching  hung 
From  the  gray  rock,  that  rises  altar-like, 
With  its  high  waving  crown  of  mountain  ash. 
'Midst  the  lone  grassy  dell.     And  this  lich  hough 
Of  hooey 'd  woodbine,  tells  me  of  the  oak 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


295 


vVlinse  deep  midsummer  gloom  sleeps  heavily, 
Slit-d'ling  a  verdurous  twilight  o'er  the  face 
Of  the  glade's  pool.     Mi'thinks  I  see  it  now; 
I  look  up  through  the  stirring  of  its  leaves 
Unto  the  intense  blue  crystal  firmament. 
The  ring-dove's  wing  is  flitting  o'er  my  head. 
Casting  at  times  a  silvery  shadow  down 
'Midst  the  large  water-lilies.     Keaiitifull 
Ho\v  beautiful  is  all  this  fair  free  world 
Jnder  God's  open  sky  1 

Mother.  Thou  art  o'erwrought 

OMCB  more,  my  child  !  The  dewy  trembling  light 
Presaging  tears,  again  is  in  thine  eye. 
O,  hush,  dear  Lilian  !  turn  thee  to  repose. 

Lilian.      Mother,    I    cannot.     In    my  soul   the 

thoughts 

Kurn  with  too  subtle  and  ton  swift  a  fire; 
Importunately  to  my  lips  they  throng, 
And  with  tlr'ir  earthly  kindred  seek  to  blend 
Ere  the  veil  drop  between.    When  I  am  gone— 
(For  I  must  go) — then  the  remember'd  words 
Wherein  these  wild  imaginings  flow  forth, 
Will  to  thy  fond  heart  he  as  amulets 
Held  there  with  life  and  love.  And  weep  not  thus) 
Mother    dear  sister  !  kindest,  irentlest  ones  1 
Be  comforted  that  now  /weep  no  more 
For  the  glad  earth  and  all  the  golden  light 
Whence  I  depart. 

No  !  God  hath  purified  my  spirit's  eye. 
And  in  the  folds  of  this  consummate  rose 
I  read  bright  prophecies.     I  see  not  there, 
Oimly  and  mournfully,  the  word  "farewetF' 
Dn  the  rich  petals  traced  :— No  — in  soft  veins 
And  characters  of  beauty.  I  can  read — 
"  Look  up,  look  heavenward  I" 

Blessed  God  of  Lovte! 

I  thank  thee  for  these  gifts,  the  precious  links 
Whereby  my  spirit  unto  thee  is  drawn  ! 
I  thank  thee  that  the  loveliness  of  earth 
Higher  than  earth  can  raise  me!  Are  not  these 
Rut  germs  of  things  unpe.rishing.  that  bloom 
Beside  th'  immortal  streams?     Shall  I  not  find 
The  lily  of  the  field,  the  Saviour's  flower, 
In  the  serene  and  never-moaning  air. 
And  the  clear  starry  light  of  angel  eyes, 
A  thousand-fold  more  glorious?     Richer  far 
Will  not  the  violet's  dusky  purple  glow, 
When  it  hath  ne'er  been  press'd  to  broken  hearts, 
A  record  of  lost  love  ? 

Mother.  My  Lilian  !  thou 

Surely  in  thy  bright  lift;  hast  little  known 
Of  lost  things  or  of  changed  ! 

Lilian.  Oh !  little  yet, . 

Fur  thou  hast  been  my  shield  !     But  had  it  been 
My  lot  on  this  world's  billows  to  be  thrown 
Without  thy  love— O  mother!  there  are  hearts 
So  perilously  fashion'd..  that  for  them 
God's  touch  alone  hath  gentleness  enough 
To  waken,  and  not  break,  their  thrilling  strings! — 
We  will  not  speak  of  this! 

By  what  strange  spell 
Is  it,  that  ever,  when  I  gaze  on  flowers, 

dream  of  music?    Something  in  their  hues 
All  melting  into  colour'd  harmonies, 
Wafts  a  swift  thought  of  interwoven  chords, 
Of  blended  singing-tones,  that  swell  and  die 
!n  tendered  falls  away. — O,  bring  thy  harp, 
Sister!  a  gentle  heaviness  at  last 
Hath  touclfd  mine  eyelids:  sing  to  me,  and  sleep 
Will  come  again. 
Jessy.     What  wouldst  thou  hear?    Th' Italian 

Peasant's  Lay, 

Which  makes  the  dVsolate  Campagna  ring 
With  "  Kama.  Roma  ?"  or  the  Madrigal 
Warbled  on  moonlight  seas  of  Sicily  1 
Or  the  old  ditty  left  by  Troubadours 
To  girls  of  Languedoc? 
Lilian.  Oh.  no !  not  these. 

Jessy.     What  then?   the  Moorish  melody  still 

known 

Within  the  Alhambrn  city?  or  those  notes 
Born  of  the  Alps,  which  pierce  the  exile's  heart 
Even  unto  death  ? 


Lilian.  No,  sister,  nor  yet  these. — 

Too  much  of  dreamy  love,  of  faint  regret. 
Of  passionately  fond  remembrance,  breathe* 
In  the  caressing  sweetness  of  their  tones, 
For  one  who  dies: — Thuy  would  but  woo  me  back 
To  glowing  life  with  those  Arcadian  sounds— 
And  vainly,  vainly — No!  a  loftier  strain, 
A  deeper  music! — Something  that  may  bear 
The  spirit  up  on  slow  yet  mighty  wings, 
Unsway'd  by  gusts  of  earth  :  something,  all   111  d 
With  solemn  adoration,  tearful  prayer. — 
Sing  me  that  antique  strain  which  once  I  deem'd 
Almost  too  sternly  simple,  too  Austere 
In  its  grave  majesty  !  I  love  it  now— 
JV<H£  it  seems  fraught  with  holiest  powei,  to  bush 
All  billows  of  the  soul,  e'en  like  His  voice 
Thai  said  of  old— "  Be  still!"  Sing  me  that  strain— 
"  The  Saviour's  dying  hour." 

[JESSY  nings  to  the  Harp 

O  Son  of  Man  ! 
In  thy  last  mortal  hour 

Shadows  of  earth  closed  round  thee  fearfully! 
All  thai  on  us  is  laid, 
All  the  deep  gloom. 
The  desolation  and  th'  abandonment. 
The  dark  amaze  of  death; 
All  upon  thee  too  tell, 
Redeemer !  Son  of  Man  t 

But  the  keen  pang 
Wherewith  the  silver  cord 
Of  earth's  affection  from  the  soul  is  wrung; 
Th'  upteariiig  of  those  tendrils  which  have  grown 

Into  the  quick  strong  heart ; 
This,  this,  the  passion  and  the  agony 
Of  battling  love  and  death, 
Surely  was  not  for  thee, 
Holy  One  !  Son  of  God  I 

Yes,  my  Redeemer! 
E'en  this  cup  was  thine! 

Fond  wailing  voices  cali'd  thy  spirit  back; 
E'en  'midst  the  mighty  thought* 
Of  that  last  crowning  hour; 

E'en  on  thine  awful  way  to  victory. 

Wildly  they  cali'd  thee  back  I 
And  weeping  eyes  of  love 
Unto  thy  heart's  deep  core, 

Pierced  thro'  the  folds  of  death's  mysterious  veil- 
Sufferer  !  thou  Son  of  Man  I 

Mother-tears  were  mingled 
With  thy  costly  blood-drops. 

In  the  shadow  of  th'  atoning  cross  ; 

And  the  friend,  the  faithful. 
He  that  on  thy  bosom. 

Thence  imbibing  heavenly  love,  had  lain — 
He,  a  pale  sad  watcher — 
Met  with  looks  of  anguish. 

All  the  anguish  in  thy  last  meek  glance — 
Dying  Son  of  Man  I 

Oh!  therefore  unto  thee, 
Thou  that  hust  known  all  woe* 
Bound  in  the  girdle  of  mortality  ! 

Thou  that  wilt  lift  the  reed 

Which  storms  have  bruised. 
To  thee  may  sorrow  through  each  conflict  cry. 
And,  in  that  tempest-hour  when  love  and  life 
Mysteriously  must  part, 

When  tearful  eyes 
Are  passionately  bent 

To  drink  earth's  lust  fond  meaning  from  our  gax^ 
Then,  then  forsake  us  not  I 
Shed  on  our  spirits  then 
The  faith  and  deep  submissiveness  of  thintl 

Thou  that  didst  love, 
Thou  that  didst  weep  and  die—- 
Thou that  didst  rise,  a  victor  glorified  t 

Conqueror  I  thou  Sun  of  (!od  • 


296 


MAXS-  POKTTCAL  WORKS. 


CATHKDRAL    HYMN. 


-•They  dreanit  not  of  a  perishable  U>roe 

Who  thus  cuuld  build.     Be  mine,  in  houn  nl  Its 

Or  grovelling  thought.  In  seek  a  rtluge  here." 


A  DIM  atitl  inmlity  minster  of  ofd  lime! 
A  temple  shadowy  with  remembrances 
Of  the  maj'-stic  pa.-t !  -the  very  lii/lit 
Streams  with  a  cnlniiritiK  of  heroic  day* 
.In  even  ray.  which  lea:ls  through  urch  and  aisle 
'A  path  of  dreamy  lustre,  wandering  back 
>  To  other  years;— and  the  rich  fretted  roof. 
And  (he  wrought  coronals  of  s-immer  leaves. 
Ivy  and  vine,  and  manv  a  sculptured  rose — 
The  teudtrest  image  of  mortality — 
Binding  the  slunder  columns,  whose  lieht  shafts 
duster  liki-  stems  in  corn-sheaves — all  these  things 
Tell  of  a  rac»  Jhal  nohly.  fearlessly.     . 
On  their  heart's  worship  ponr'd  a  wea!:h  of  love! 
Honour  he  with  tlr-  dead  ! — The  people  kneel 
Under  the  helms  of  antique  chivalry, 
And  in  the  crimson  gloom  from  banners  thrown. 
And 'midst  the  forms,  in  pale  proud  slumber  carved 
Of  warriors  oti  their  tombs.— The  people  kneel 
Where  mail-clad  chiefs  have  knelt;  where  jewell'd 

crowns 

On  the  flush'd  brows  of  conquerors  have  been  set; 
Where  the  high  anthems  of  old  victories 
Have   made  the  dust  give  echoes. — Hence,  vain 

thoughts! 

Memories  of  power  and  pride,  which,  long  ago, 
Like  dim  processions  of  a  dream,  have  sunk 
In  twilight  depths  away. — Return,  my  soul ! 
The  cross  recalls  thee—  Lo  !  the  Messed  cross 


W  11  [I  all   I  U'  1 1  strci  ei  !H*i  11119  til    imi  itrii  guc 

Al.  theil  full  treasures  of  immortnl  hope. 

Gather'd  before  their  God  !—  Hark  !  bow  the  flood 

Of  Hie  rich  oigan  harmony  b.-ars  up 

Their  voice  on  its  high  waves! — a  mighty  burst! 

A  forest-sounding  music!— every  tone 

Which  the   blasts  cull   forth  with  their  harping 

wings 

Prom  gulfs  of  tossing  foliage  there  is  blent  • 
And  the  old  minster— forest-like  itself— 
With  its  long  avenues  of  pillar'd  shade. 
Seems  quivering  all  with  spirit,  as  that  strain 
O'erflows  its  dim  recesses,  leaving  not 
One  tomb  unthrill'd  by  Hie  strong  sympathy 
Answering  the  electric  notes.— Join,  join,  my  soul' 
In  thine  own  lowly,  trembling  consciousness, 
And  thine  own  solitude,  the  glorious  hymn. 

Rise  like  an  altar-fire! 

In  solemn  joy  aspire, 
Deepening  thy  passion  still.  O  choral  strain  ! 

On  thy  strong  rushing  wind 

Bear  up  from  human  kind 
Thanks  and  implorings— be  they  not  in  vain  ' 

Father,  which  art  on  high! 

Weak  is  the  melody 
Of  harp  or  song  to  reach  thine  awful  ear, 

Unless  the  heart  be  there. 

Winging  the  words  of  prayer, 
With  its  own  fervent  faith  or  suppliant  fear. 

Let.  then,  thy  spirit  brood 

Over  the  multitude — 
Be  thon  amidst  them  through  that  heavenly  GueM  I 

So  shall  their  cry  have  power 

To  win  from  thee  a  shower 
Of  healing  gifts  for  every  wounded  breast. 

What  griefs  that  make  no  sign. 

That  ask  no  aid  hut  thine. 
Father  of  Mercies !  here  before  thee  swell. 

As  to  the  open  sky, 

All  their  dark  waters  lie 
To  thee  rcveal'd.  in  ?ach  close  bosom  cell 


The  sorrow  fur  the  dead. 

Mantling  its  lonely  h.-ad 
From  ihe  world's  glare,  is.  in  thy  sight,  set  firecj 

And  the  fond,  aching  love, 

Thy  ininist  r,  to  move 
All  the  wrung  spirit,  softening  it  for  thee. 

And  doth  not  thy  dread  eye 

Behold  the  agony 
!•  that  most  hidden  chamber  of  the  heart. 

Where  durkly  sits  remorse. 

Beside  the  secret  source 
Of  fearful  visions,  keeping  watch  apart? 

Yes!  here  before  thy  throne 
Many — yet  each  alone — 
To  thee  that  terrible  unveiling  make; 
And  still  small  whispers  clear 
Arc  startling  many  an  eai. 
s  if  a  trumpet  bade  the  dead  awake. 

How  dreadful  is  this  place  I 

The  glory  of  thy  face 
Fills  it  too  scaicliingly  for  mortal  sigft : 

Where  shall  the  guilty  flee  ? 

Over  what  far-off  sea  ? 

What  hills,  what    woods,  may  shroud    aim   tram 
that  light? 

Not  to  the  cedar  shade 

Let  his  vain  flight  he  made; 
N'or  the  old  mountains,  nor  the  desert  sea  ; 

What,  b.it  the  cross,  can  yield 

Ths  h.ipe — the  stay — the  shield  ? 
Thence  may  the  A  toner  lead  him  up  to  Thee  I 

Be  thou,  be  thon  his  aid! 

Oh  !  let  thy  love  pervade 
The  flaunted  caves  of  self-accusing  thought) 

There  let  the  living  stone 

Be  cleft — tile  seed  be  sown — 
The  song  of  fountains  from  the  silence  brought* 

So  shall  thy  breath  once  more 

Within  lilt.-  soul  restore 
Thine  own  first  image— Holiest  and  most  High! 

As  a  clear  lake  is  fill'd 

With  hues  of  Heaven,  instill'd 
Down  to  the  depths  of  its  calm  purity. 

And  if,  amidst  the  throng 

Link'd  by  the  ascending  song. 
There  are,  whose  thoughts  in   trembling  raptun 
soar ; 

That.ks,  Father!  that  the  power 

Of  joy,  man's  early' dower. 
Thus,  e'en  'midst  tears,  can  fervently  adore) 

Thanks  fur  each  gift  divine! 

Eternal  praise  be  thine. 
Blessing  and  love.  O  Thou  that  hearest  prayer! 

Let  the  hymn  pierce  the  sky. 

And  let  the  tombs  reply  ! 
For  seed   that  waits  thy  harvest-time,  it  the/*. 


WOOD  WALK  AND  HYMN 


More  along  these  shades 
ID  gentlenen  of  bean  ,  wi'L  gentle  hai>4 
Touch — for  there  »  a  spirit  ia  the  wumb 


FATHER— CHILD. 

Child.    There  are  the  aspens,  with  their  silvery 

leaves 

Trembling,  for  ever  trembling !  though  the  lime 
And  chestnut  boughs,  and  those  long  arching  spray* 
Of  eglantine,  hang  still,  as  if  tin:  wood 
Were  all  one  picture! 

Father.  Hast  thou  heard,  my  boy, 

The  peasant's  legend  of  that  quivuri  ig  tree  ? 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  AVOHKS. 


Child.   No,  Hither  ;  doth  he  say  the  fairies  dance 

Amidst  til.:   Ill  a  nr 1 1,.-  ? 

ffatkrr.  Oh!  a  cause  more  deep, 

Moru  solemn  far,  I  lie  rustic  iloth  assign 
To  the  slraniie  restlessness  of  those  wan  leaves! 
Tlii;  cross,  lie  deems,  the  blessed  cross,  whereon 
The  m;;ek  l!e:leeiner  how'd  his  head  to  death. 
Was  framed  of  ai-pe.ii  wood  ;  and  since  thai  hour. 
riiroimli  all  its  race  the  pale  tree  hath  sent  down 
A  thrilling  consciousness,  a  secret  awe. 
M.ikiiiu  them  liem  ilmis.  when  not  a  breeze 
Disturbs  the  airy  thistle  down,  or  shakes 
The  light  lines  of  the  shinin<r  gossamer. 

CAi/irf,  (fi/if*/'««»c.)  ll,)st  l  hull  believe  it,  father? 

father.  Nay,  my  child. 

We  walk  in  clearer  light.     But  yet,  even  now. 
With  something  of  a  lingering  love,  I  read 
Th.1  characters.  by  that  mysterious  hour. 
Stamp'd  on  ill,;  reverential  soul  of  man 
[n  visionary  ii;tys;  and  thence  thrown  back 
o  i  the  fair  forms  of  nature.     Many  a  sign 
(>    th'j  jireat  sacrifice  which  won  us  Heaven, 
Tli  •  woodman  and  the  uiouiilaiiieor  can  trace 
Ct.i  rock,  on  herb,  and  flower.     And  be  it  so! 
They  do  not  wisely  that,  with  hurried  hand. 
Would  pluck  these  salutary  fancies  forth 
From  their  strong  soil  within  the  peasant's  breast, 
And  scatter  them— far,  far  too  fast  ! — away 
'As  worthless  weeds  :— Oil !  little  do  we  know 
ffken  they  have  soothed,  when  saved ! 

But  come,  dear  boy! 
My  words  grow  tinged  with  thought  too  deep  for 

I  bee. 
'Jome— let  us  search  for  violets. 

Child  Know  you  not 

More  of  the  legends  which  the  woodmen  tell 
Amidst  the  trees  and  flowers  ? 

Father.  Wilt  thon  know  more  ? 

Bringthen  the  folding  leaf,  with  dark  brown  stains. 
There— by  the  mossy  roots  of  yon  old  beech, 
Midst  the  rich  tuft  of  cowslips — see'st  thou  not? 
There  is  a  spray  of  woodbine  from  the  tree 
fust  bending  o'er  U.  with  a  wild  bet's  weight. 

CJtitd    The  Arum  leaf? 

father.  Yes.  these  deep  inwrought  marks, 

The  villager  will  tell  \hee  ^aud  with  voice 
Lower'd  in  his  true  heart's  reverent  earnestness) 
Are  tbe  flower's  portion  from  tir  atoning  blood 
On  Calvary  shed.     Beneath  the  cross  it  grew; 
And,  in  tlti-  vase-like  hollow  of  its  leaf, 
Catching  from  that  dread  shower  of  agony 
A  few  mysterious  drops,  transmitted  thuc 
Unto  the  groves  and  Mils,  their  sealing  stains, 
A  heritage,  fur  storm  or  vernal  wind 
Never  to  waft  away  ! 

And  hast  thou  seen 

The  passion -flow-r  ?—  It  crows  not  in  the  woods, 
But  'midst  the  bright  things  brought  from  other 
climes. 

Child.     What,  the  pale  star-shaped  flower,  with 

purple  streaks 
And  light  green  tendrils? 

Father.  Thou  hast  mark'd  it  well. 

Yes,  a  pale,  starry,  dreamy-looking  flower, 
A»  from  a  land  of  spirits! — To  mine  eye 
Those  faint  wan  petals— colourless — and  yet 
Not  white,  but  shadowy — with  the  mystic  lines 
(As  letters  of  some  wizard  language  gone) 
Into  their  vapour-like  transparence  wrought. 
Bear  something  of  a  strange  solemnity. 
Awfully  lovely  !— and  the  Christian's  thought, 
Loves,  in  their  cloudy  pencilling,  to  find 
Dread  symbols  of  his  Lord's  last  mournful  pangs, 
Bet  by  Rail's  hand— The  coronal  of  thorns— 
The  cross— the  wounds — with  other  meanings  deep, 
Which  I  will  teach  thee  when  we  meet  again 
That  flower,  the  chosen  for  the  martyr's  wreath. 
The  Saviour's  holy  flower. 

But  let  us  pause  : 

Now  have  we  reach'd  the  very  inmost  heart 
Of  the  old  wood. — How  the  green  shadows  close 
Into  a  rich,  clear,  summer  darkness  round, 
A  luxury  of  gloom  ! — 'Scarce  doth  one  ray. 
Even  wix'ii  a  soft  wind  parts  the  foliage,  steal 
O'er  the  wonzed  pillars  of    lioe  deep  arcade*; 


Or  if  it  doth,  'tis  with  a  mellow'd  hue 
Of  glow-worm  colour'd  light. 

Here,  in  the  days 

Of  pagan  visions,  would  have  been  a  place 
For  worship  of  the  wood  nymphs!   Through  them 

oaks 

A  small,  fair  gleaming  temple  might  have  thrown 
The  quivering  image  of  its  Dorian  shafts 
On  the  stream's  bosom;  or  a  sculptured  form, 
Dryad,  or  fountain-goddess  of  the  gloom. 
Have  bow'd  its  head  o'er  that  dark  crystal  down. 
Drooping  with  beauty,  as  a  lily  droops 
Under  bright  rain  :— but  we.  my  child,  are  here 
With  God.  our  God,  a  Spirit ;  who  requires 
lleart-u  orship,  given  in  spirit  and  in  truth; 
And  this  hii:h  knowledge — deep,  rich,  vast  enough 
To  fill  and  hallow  all  the  solitude, 
Makes  consecrated  earth  where'er  we  movt, 
Without  the  aid  of  shrines. 

What !  dost  thou  feel 

The  solemn  whispering  influence  of  the  scene 
Oppressing  thy  young  heart,  that  thou  dost  draw 
More  closely  to  "my  side,  and  clasp  my  hand 
Faster  in  thine  ?     Nay.  fear  not,  gentle  child  ! 
'Tis  love,  not  fear,  whose  vernal  breath  pervades 
The  stillness  round.    Come,  sit  beside  me  here. 
Where  brooding  violets  mantle  this  green  slope 
With  dark  exuberance— and  beneath  'hese  plumes 
Of  wavy  fern,  look  where  the  cup-moss  holds 
In  its  p:ire  crimson  goblets,  fresh  and  bright, 
The  starry  dews  of  morning.     Rest  awhile 
And  let  me  hear  once  more  the  woodland  verse 
I  taught  thee  late — 'twas  made  for  such  a  scene. 
Child  spent* 

WOOD   HYMN. 

Broods  there  some  spirit  Here  ? 
The  summer  leaves  hang  silent  as  a  cloud; 
And  o'er  the  pools,  all  still  and  darkly  clear. 
The  wild  wood-hyacinth  with  awe  seems  bow'd- 
And  something  of  a  tender  cloistral  gloom 

Deepens  the  violet's  bloom. 

The  very  light  that  streams 
Through  the  dim  dewy  veil  of  foliage  round. 
Comes  tremulous  with  emerald-tinted  gleams, 
As  if  it  knew  the  place  were  holy  ground. 
And  would  not  startle  with  too  bright  a  burst. 

Flowers,  all  divinely  nursed. 

Wah.es  there  some  spirit  here? 
A  swift  wind,  fraught  with  change,  comes  rush 

ing  by, 

And  leaves  and  waters,  in  its  wild  career, 
Shed  forth  sweet  voices— each  a  mystery  I 
Surely  some  awful  influence  must  pervade 

These  depths  of  trembling  shade  t 

Yes.  lightly,  softly  move  I 
There  is  a  power,  a  presence  in  the  woods; 
A  viewless  being,  that,  with  life  and  love, 
Informs  the  reverential  solitudes; 
The  rich  air  knows  it,  and  the  mossy  sod — 

Thou,  tiwu.  art  here,  my  God  ! 

And  if  with  awe  we  tread 
The  minster  floor,  beneath  the  storied  pane. 
And  'midst  the  mouldering  banners  of  the  dead. 
Shall  the  green  voiceful  wild  seem  lest  thy  fane, 
Where  thou  alone  hast  built  ?—  where  arch  and 
roof 

Are  of  thy  living  woof  1 

The  silence  and  the  sound, 
In  the  lone  places,  breathe  alike  of  thee  ; 
The  temple  twilight  of  the  gloom  profound, 
The  dew-cup  of  the  frail  anemone. 
The  reed  by  every  wandering  whisper  thrill'd— 

All,  all  with  thee  are  fill'd  ! 

Oh !  purify  mine  eyes. 

More  and  yet  more,  by  love  and  lowly  thought. 
Thy  presence,  holiest  One!  to  recognize. 
In  these  majestic  aisles  which  thou  hast  wrought  t 
And  'midst  their  sea-like  murmurs,  teach  mine  «•» 

Kver  thy  voice  to  hear  I 


298 


HUMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS 


/ln«l  sanctify  my  heart 
To  meet  tne  awful  sweetness  of  that  tone 
With  no  faint  thrill  or  welf-aceiMllig  start, 
But  a  deep  joy  the  heavenly  guest  to  own — 
Joy,  such  as  dwelt  in  Ivlen's  glorious  bowers 

Ere  sin  had  dimm'd  the  Mowers. 

Let  me  not  know  the  change 
O'er  nature  thrown  liy  guilt  '—the  boding  sky, 
The  hollow  leaf-sounds  ominous  and  strange, 
The  weight  \\  herewith  the  dark  tree  shadows  lit 
Father  .  oh !  keep  my  footsteps  pure  and  free, 

To  walk  tin!  woods  with  Diet;! 


PRAYER  OF  THE  LONELY  STUDENT 


Self,  of  our  snail .  and  safeguard  of  the  world ! 
Sustain— Thau  only  canst— the  sick  at  heart, 
Restore  their  languid  spirits,  and  recall 
Their  lost  affections  unto  tliee  and  thine. 

Wordneorth 


Niortr — holy  night ! — the  time 
For  mind's  free  breadlines  in  a  purer  clime  I 
Night !  when  in  h;ippier  hour  the  unveiling  sky 

Woke  all  my  kindled  soul. 
To  meet  its  revelations,  clear  and  high. 
With  the  strong  joy  of  immortality: 

Now  hath  strange  sadness  wrapt  me— strange  and 

deep — 

And  my  thoughts  faint,  and  shadows  o'er  them  roll. 

E'en  when  I  deein'd  them  seraph-plumed,  to  sweep 

Far  beyond  earth's  control. 

Wherefore  is  this  ?— T  see  the  stars  returning. 
Fire  after  fire  in  Heaven's  rich  temple  burning — 
Fust  shine  they  forth — rny  spirit  friends,  my  guide*. 
Bright  rulers  of  my  being's  inmost  tides; 

They  shine — but  faintly,  through   a  quivering 

haze — 

0)h !  is  the  dimness  mine  which  clouds  those  rays  ? 
They  from  whose  glance  my  childhood  drank  de- 
light ! 

A  joy  unquestioning — a  love  intense — 
They,  that  unfolding  to  more  thoughtful  sight, 
The  harmony  of  their  magnificence, 
Drew  silently  the  worship  of  my  youth 
To  the  grave  sweetness  on  the  brow  of  truth  • 
Shall  they  shower  blessings,  with  their  beam*  di- 
vine. 

Down  to  the  watcher  on  the  stormy  sea. 
And  to  the  pilgrim  toiling  for  his  shrine 
Through  some  wild  pass  of  rocky  Apennine, 

And  to  !he  wanderer  lone 

On  wastes  of  Afric  thrown, 
And  .iot  to  me? 

Am  <  a  thing  forsaken. 

And  r.  the  gladness  taken 

From  the  hrii'Iit-p'.'iion'd  nature  which  hath  soar'd 
Through  realms  oy  royal  eagle  ne'er  explored, 
And,  buttling  there  in  streams  of  fiery  light. 
Found  strength  to  gaze  upon  the  Infinite  7 

And  now  an  alien  ! — Wherefore  must  this  be? 

How  shall  I  rend  the  chain  t 

How  drink  rich  life  again 

From  those  pure  urns  of  radiance,  swelling  free? 
Father  of  Spirits)  let  me  turn  to  tliee  I 

Oh !  if  too  much  exulting  in  her  dower. 
My  soul  not  yet  to  lowly  thought  subdued, 

Hath  stood  without  tliee  on  her  hill  of  power— 
A  fearful  and  a  dazzling  solitude  ! 

And  therefore  from  that  haughty  summit's  crown, 

To  dim  desertion  is  by  tliee  cast  down ; 

Jehoid !  thy  child  submissively  hath  bow'd — 
Shine  on  him  through  the  cloud  t 

«ct  the  now  darken'd  earth  and  eurtain'd  heaven 
Sock  to  his  vision  with  thy  face  be  given  t 
Bear  him  on  nigh  once  more, 
But  in  thy  strength  to  soar, 


And  wrapt  and  still  by  that  c'ershadowing  might 
Forth  on  the  empyreal  blaze  to  lo.ik  with  chasten 
ed  sight. 

Or  if  it  be,  that  like  the  ark's  lone  dove. 

My  thoughts  go  forth,  and  rind  no  resting-place, 

No  sheltering  home  of  sympathy  anil  love, 

In  the  responsive  bosoms  of  my  rare, 

And  back  return,  a  darkness  and  a  weight. 

Till  my  unanswer'd  heart  grows  desolate — 

Yet,  yet  sustain  me.  Holiest !—  I  am  vow'd 

To  solemn  service  high  ; 
And  shall  the  spirit,  for  thy  tasks  endow'd, 
Sink  on  the  threshold  of  tin;  sanctuary. 
Fainting  beneath  the  burden  of  tin;  day, 

Because  no  human  tone, 

Unto  the  altar-stone, 
Of  that  pure  spousal  fane  inviolate, 
Where  it  should  make,  eternal  truth  its  mate. 
May  cheer  the  sacred  solitary  way  ? 

Oh  I  be  the  whisper  of  thy  voice  within 
Enough  to  strengthen  !   Ho  tne  hope  to  win 
A  more  deep-seeing  homage  for  thy  name. 
Far,  far  beyond  the  burning  dream  of  fame! 
Make  me  thine  only  !    Let  me  add  but  one 
To  those  refulgent  steps  all  undefiled. 

Which  glorious  minds  have  piled 
Thro'  bright  self-offering,  earnest,  child-like,  IOM 

For  mounting  to  thy  throne  I 

And  let  my  soul,  upborne 

On  wings  of  inner  morn, 
Find,  in  illumined  secrecy,  the  sense 
Of  that  blest  work,  its  own  high  recompense. 

The  dimness  melts  away, 
That  on  your  glory  lay, 

O  ye  majestic  watchers  of  the  skies  I 
Through  the  dissolving  veil. 
Which  made  each  aspect  pate, 

Your  gladd'ning  fires  once  more  I  recognise; 
And  once  aswin  a  shower 
Of  hope,  and  joy,  and  power. 

Streams  on  my  soul  from  your  immortal  eye*. 

And,  if  that  splendour  to  ipy  sober'd  sight 
Come  tremulous,  with  more  of  pensive'ljght— 
Something,  though  beautiful,  yet  deeply  fraught, 
With  more  that  pierces  thro'  each  fold  of  thougil 
Than  I  was  wont  to  trace 
On  Heaven's  unshadow'd  face- 
Be  it  e'en  so! — be  mine,  though  set  apart 
Unto  a  radiant  ministry,  yet  still 
A  lowly,  fearful,  self-distrusting  heart; 
Bow'd  before  tliee,  O  Mightiest !  whose  Meat  wiU 
All  the  pure  stars  rejoicingly  fulfil. 


THE  TRAVELLER'S  EVENING  SONG. 


FATHER,  guide  me  !    Day  decline*, 
Hollow  winds  are  in  the  pines  ; 
Darkly  waves  each  giant  Sough 
O'er  the  sky's  last  crimson  glow; 
Hush'd  is  now  the  convent's  bell. 
Which  erewhile  with  breezy  swoll 
From  the  purple  mountains  bore 
Greeting  to  the  sunset-shore. 
Now  the  sailor's  vesper-hymn 

Dies  away. 
Father  I  in  the  forest  dim, 

Be  my  stay  1 

In  the  low  and  shivering  thril! 

Of  the  leaves  that  late  hung  stiM; 

In  the  dull  and  muffled  tone 

Of  the  sea-wave's  distant  moan  ; 

In  the  deep  tints  of  the  sky, 

There  are  signs  of  tempest  nigh. 

Ominous,  with  sullen  sound, 

Falls  the  closing  dusk  around. 

Father !  through  the  storm  mid 
O'er  th*1  wilj. 

Oh!  be  Thou  trie  .one  one's  aid- 
Save  thy  child  I 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


299 


Vfany  a  swift  and  sounding  plume 
Homewards,  through  I  lie  hodiiig  gloom, 
O'er  my  way  hath  flitted  fast. 
Since  the  farewell  sunbeniii  pasVd 
From  the  chestnut's  ruddy  hark. 
And  the  pools,  now  lone,  and  dark, 
Where  the  wakening!  night-winds  sigh 
Through  the  long  reeds  niounifiilly. 
Homeward,  homeward,  all  tilings  haste- 
Cod   Of  IMIL'Ilt  ! 

Shield  the  homeless  'midst  the  waste. 
Be.  his  light! 

In  his  distant  cradle,  nest. 
Now  my  balie  is  laid  to  rest : 
Beautiful  his  slumber  scums 
With  a  glow  of  heavenly  dreams, 
Beautiful,  o'er  that  bright  Bleep, 
Hans  soft  eyes  of  fondness  deep, 
Where  his  mother  bends  to  pray. 
For  the  loved  ami  far  away. — 
Father1  guard  that  household  bower, 

Hear  that  prayer ! 
Back,  through  thine  all-guiding  power. 

Lead  me  there  1 

Darker,  wilder,  grows  the  night — 
Not  a  star  sends  quivering  light 
Through  the  massy  arch  of  shade 
By  the  stern  old  forest  made. 
Thou  !  to  whose  unslu inhering  cyei 
All  my  pathway  open  lies, 
By  thy  Son,  who  knew  distress 
In  the  lonely  wilderness. 
Where  no  roof  to  that  blest  head 

Shelter  gave — 
Father!  through  the  time  of  drecJ, 

Save,  oh  I  save) 


BURIAL  OF  AN  EMIGRANT'S  CHILD 
IN  THE  FORESTS 


SCKHE.— The  banks  of  a  solitary  river  in  an  rfme- 
rican  Forest.  Jl  tent  under  pine-trees  in  the  fore- 
ground. AGNES  sitting  before  the  tent  with  a  child 
in  her  arms,  apparently  sleeping. 

Jignes.    Surely  'tis  all  a  dream — a  fever-dream  ! 
The  desolation  and  the  agony — 
The  strange  red  sunrise — and  the  gloomy  woods, 
So  terrible  with  their  dark  giant  houghs. 
And  the  broad  lonely  river  !  all  a  dream  I 
And  my  boy's  voice  will  wake  me,  with  its  clear, 
Wild,  singing  tones,  as  they  were  wont  to  come, 
Through  the  wreath'd  sweet-brier  at  my  lattice 

panes. 

In  happy,  happy  England  '   Speak  to  me! 
?peak  to  thy  mother,  bright  one  1  she  hath  watch'd 
All  the  dread  night  beside  thee,  till  her  brain 
Is  darken'd  by  swift  waves  of  fantasies, 
And  her  soul  faint  with  longing  for  thy  voice. 
Oh  !  I  must  wake  him  with  one  gentle  kiss 
On  his  fair  brow! 

(Shudderingly)     The    strange    damp    thrilling 

touch ! 

The  marble  chill !   Now,  now  it  rushes  back— 
Now  I  know  all !— dead—  dead !— a  fearful  word! 
My  boy  hath  left  me  in  the  wilderr.ess. 
To  journey  on  without  the  blessed  light 
In  his  deep  loving  eyes — he's  gone— he's  gone  ! 

[Her  HUSBAND  en/ erf. 
Husband.    Agnes,  my  Agnes !  hast  thou  look'd 

thy  last 

On  our  sweet  slumberer's  face  7  The  hour  is  come — 
Th«  conch  made  ready  for  his  last  repose. 
jjpncs.    Not  yet .  thou  canst  not  take  him  from 

mo  yet ! 


[f  he  but  leu  me  i'ur  A  few  s.iort  nnv*. 

This  were  too  brief  a  gazing  nine,  10  uruw 

His  angel  intake  into  my  tun. I  heart. 

And  fix  its  beauty  there.  And  now — oh!  map, 

Never  again  the  laughter  nf  his  eye 

Shall  send  its  gladd'niug  summer  through  my  soul, 

Never  on  earth  again.     Yet,  j«t  delay  I 

Thou  canst  not  take  him  from  me. 

Husband.  My  beloved 

Is  it  not  (Jod  hath  taken  him  1  the  God 
That  took  our  first-born,  o'er  whose  early  grave 
Th  iu  didst  hnw  down  thy  saint-like  ln,ad,  and  say, 
'  His  will  be  done  !" 

.lanes.  Oh!  that  near  household  grave, 

Under  the  turf  of  England,  seem'd  not  half, 
Not  half  so  much  to  par!  me  from  my  child 
As  these  dark  woods.     It  lay  beside  our  home, 
And  1  could  wntch  the  sunshine,  through  all  hours 
Loving  and  clinging  to  the  grassy  spot, 
And  I  could  dress  its  greensward  with  fresh  flow- 
ers— 

Familiar,  meadow  flowers.     O'er  thec,  my  babe, 
The  primrose  will  not  blossom!    Oh!  that  now, 
Together,  by  thy  fair  young  sister's  side, 
We  lay  'midst  England's  valleys! 

Husband.  Dost  thou  grieve, 

Agnes !  that  thou  hast  folio w'd  o'er  the  deep 
An  exile's  fortunes?     If  it  thus  can  be, 
The.ii.  after  many  a  conflict  cheerily  met, 
My  spirit  sinks  at  last. 

jlpnes.  Forgive,  forgive! 

My  K  lmund,  pardon  me!  Oh!  grief  is  wild — 
Forget  its  words,  quick  spray-drops  from  a  founl 
Of  unknown  bitterness!    Thou  art  my  home! 
Mine  only  and  my  blessed  one!    Where'er 
Thy  warm  heart  heats  in  its  true  nobleness, 
There  is  my  country  !  there  my  head  shall  rest, 
And  throb  no  more.   Oh  !  still,  by  thy  strong  love 
Bear  up  the  feeble  reed  ! 

[Kneeling  with  the  child  in  her  arm* 

And  thou,  my  God  ! 

Hear  my  soul's  cry  from  this  dread  wilderness. 
Oh !  hear,  and  pardon  me  !     If  I  have  made 
This  treasure,  sent  from  thee,  too  much  the  ark 
Fraught  with  mine  earthward-clinging  happinvec. 
Forgetting  Him  who  gave,  and  might  resume, 
'»h,  pardon  me! 

If  nature  hath  rebell'd. 
And  from  thy  light  turn'd  wilfully  away, 
Making  a  midnight  of  her  agony. 
When  the  despairing  passion  of  her  clasp 
Was  from  its  idol  stricken  at  one  touch 
Of  thine  Almighty  hand— oh,  pardon  me! 
By  thy  Son's  anguish,  pardon  !    In  the  soul 
The  tempests  and  the  waves  will  know  thy  voice- 
Father,  say  "  Peace,  be  still!" 

[Oiving  the  child  to  her  husband 

Farewell,  my  babe  I 
Go  from  my  bosom  now  to  other  rest ! 
With  this  last  kiss  on  thine  unsullied  brow. 
And  on  thy  pale  calm  cheek  these  contrite  tears, 
I  yield  thee  to  thy  Maker! 

Husband.  Now.  my  wife. 

Thine  own  meek  holiness  beams  forth  once  moie 
A  light  upon  my  path.     Now  shall  1  bear, 
From  thy  dear  arms,  the  slumberer  to  repose — 
With  a  calm,  trustful  heart. 

Jlgnes.  My  Edmund!  wheic — 

Where  wilt  thou  lay  him  ? 

Husband.  Seest  thou  where  the  spitn 

Of  yori  dark  cypress  reddens  in  the  sun 
To  burning  gold  ?— there — o'er  yon  willow-tuft  f 
Under  that  native  desert  monument 
Lies  his  lone  bed.    Our  Hubert,  since  the  dawn, 
With  the  grey  mosses  of  the  wilderness 
Hath  lined  it  closely  through ;  and  there  breathed 

forth, 

E'en  from  the  fullness  of  his  own  pure  heart, 
A  wild,  sad  forest  hymn— a  song  of  tears. 
Which  thou  wilt  learn  to  love.     I  heard  the  bojr 
Chanting  it  o'er  his  solitary  task. 
As  wails  a  wood-bird  to  the  thrilling  leaves, 
Perchance  unconsciously. 

jlgnes.  My  gentle  son  I 

Th'  affectionate,  the  gifted  I— With  what  Joy— 


300 


I1KMAXS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Edmund,   rememberest  thou  ? — with  what  bright 

joy 

His  baliy  brother  ever  In  his  arms 
Would  spring  from  rosy  sleep,  and  playfully 
Hide  the  rich  clusters  of  his  gleaming  hair 
In  that  kind  youthful  breast!— Oh!  now  no  more— 
But  strengthen  me,  my  God  !  and  melt  my  heart. 
Even  to  a  well-spring  of  adoring  tears, 
For  many  a  blessing  left. 

(Bending  over  tltc  Child.)  Once  more  farewell! 
Oh !  the  pale  piercing  sweetness  of  that  look  I 
How  can  it  be  sustaiu'd  ?    Away,  away! 

[After  a  sJiort  pause 

Edmund,  my  woman's  nature  still  is  weuk — 
I  cannot  see  thee  render  dust  to  dust! 
Go  thou.  my  husband,  to  thy  solemn  task  ; 
I  will  rest  here,  and  still  my  soul  with  prayer 
Till  thy  return. 

Husband.        Then  strength  be  with  thy  prayer 
Peace  on  thy  bosom  !     Faith  and  heavenly  hope 
Unto  thy  spirit !     Fare  thee  well  awhile  I 
We  must  be  pilgrims  of  the  woods  again. 
After  this  mournful  hour. 

[He  goes  out  with  the  child.  AONES  kneels  in 
prayer,  dfter  a  time,  voices  without  are  heard 
tinging 

THE  FUNERAL  HYMN. 

Where  the  long  reeds  quiver. 

Where  the  pines  make  moan, 
By  the  forest  river, 

Sleeps  our  babe  alone. 

England's  field  flowers  may  not  deck  his  grave. 
Cypress  shadows  o'er  him  darkly  wave. 

Woods  unknown  receive  him, 

'Midst  the  mighty  wild  ; 
Yet  with  God  we  leave  him. 

Blessed,  blessed  child! 
And  our  tears  gush  oVr  his  lovely  dust. 
Mournfully,  yet  still  from  hearts  of  trust. 

Though  his  eye  hath  brighteu'd 

Oft  our  weary  way. 
And  his  clear  laugh  lighten'd 

Half  our  heart's  dismay ; 
Btil!  in  hope  we  give  back  what  was  given, 
Yielding  up  the  beautiful  to  Heaven. 

And  to  her  who  bore  him, 

Her  who  long  must  weep. 

Yet  shall  Heaven  restore  him 

From  his  pale,  sweet  sleep! 

Those  blue  eyes  of  love  and  peace  again 

Through  her  soul  will  shine,  undimm'd  by  pain. 

Where  the  long  reeds  quiver, 

Where  the  pines  make  moan, 
Leave  we  by  the  river, 
Earth  to  earth  alone! 
Cod  and  Father!  may  our  journeyings  on 
Lead  to  where  the  blessed  ooy  is  gone ! 

From  the  exile's  sorrow, 

From  the  wanderer's  dread 
Of  fhe  night  and  morrow, 

Early,  brightly  fled ; 
Thou  hast  call'd  him  to  a  sweeter  home 
Than  our  lost  one  o'er  the  ocean's  foam. 

Now  let  thought  behold  him 

With  his  angei  look, 
Where  those  arms  enfold  him, 

Which  benignly  took 

UraH's  babes  to  their  Good  Shepherd'*  breast, 
When  his  voice  their  tender  meekness  blest. 

Turn  thee  now.  fond  mother 

From  thy  dead,  oh,  turn  ! 
Linger  not,  young  brother. 

Here  to  dream  and  mourn  : 
Only  kneel  once  more  around  the  sod, 
Knee  .  and  bow  submitted  hearts  to  God! 


EASTER-DAY 
IN  A  MOUNTAIN  CHUKCH-YARD. 


THERE  is  a  wakening  on  the  mighty  hills, 
A  kindling  with  the  spirit  of  the  morn  ! 
Bright  gleams  arescatter'd  from  the  thousand  rill* 
And  a  soft  visionary  hue  is  born 

On  the  young  foliage,  worn 
By  all  the  cmbosom'd  woods— a  silvery  green, 
Made  up  of  spring  and  dew,  harmoniously  seren* 

And  lo!  where  floating  through  a  glory,  singi 
The  lark,  alone  amidst  a  crystal  sky! 
Lo!  where  the  darkness  of  his  buoyant  wings. 
Against  a  soft  and  rosy  cloud  on  high, 

Trembles  with  melody  I 
While  the  far-echoing  solitudes  rejoice 
To  the  rich  laugh  of  music  in  that  voice. 

But  purer  light  than  of  the  early  sun 
Is  on  you  cast,  O  mountains  of  the  earth. 
And  for  your  dwellers  nobler  joy  is  won 
Than  the  sweet  echoes  of  the  skylark's  mirth. 

By  this  glad  morning'!)  birth  t 
And  gifts  more  precious  by  its  breath  are  shed 
Than  music  on   the  breeze,  duw  on  the  violet'i 
head. 

Gifts  for  the  soul,  from  whose  illumin'd  eye. 
O'er  nature's  face  the  colouring  glory  flows; 
Gifts  from  the  fount  of  immortality, 
Which,  flll'd  with  balm,  unknown  to  human  woe», 

Lay  hush'd  in  dark  repose, 
Till  thou,  bright  day-spring!  mad'st  its  waves  out 

own, 
By  thine  unsealing  of  the  burial-stone. 

Sing,  then,  with  all  your  choral  strains,  ye  hilli  I 
And  let  a  full  victorious  tone  be  given. 
By  rock  and  cavern,  to  the  wind  which  fills 
Vour  urn  like  depths  with  sound!    The  tomb  M 
riven, 

The  radiant  gate  of  Heaven 
Unfolded— and  the  stern,  dark  shadow  cast 
By  death's  o'ersweeping  wing,  from  the  earth'* 
bosom  past. 

And  you,  ye  graves!  upon  whose  turf  I  stand, 
Girl  with  the  slumber  of  the  ha  inlet's  dead. 
Time  with  a  soft  and  reconciling  hand 
The  covering  mantle  of  bright  moss  hath  spread 

O'er  every  narrow  bed: 
But  not  by  time,  and  not  by  nature  sown 
Was  the  celestial  seed,  whence  round  you  peac* 
hath  grown. 

Christ  hath  arisen  !  oh!  not  one  cherish'd  head 
Hath,  'midst  the  flowery  sods,  been  pillow'd  here 
Without  a  hope,  (howe'er  Hie  heart  hath  bled 
In  its  vain  yearnings  o'er  the  unconscious  bier,) 

A  hope,  upspringirig  clear 
From  those  majestic  tidings  of  the  morn. 
Which  lit  the  living  way  to  all  of  woman  bom 

Thou  hast  wept  mournfully,  O  human  love ! 
E'en  on  this  greensward  ;  night  hath  heard  thy  <  ly 
Heart-stricken  one  !  thy  precious  dust  above, 
Night,  and  the  hills,  which  sent  forth  no  repiy 

Unto  thine  agony ! 

But  He  who  wept  like  thee,  thy  Lord,  thy  gnidt, 
Christ  hath  arisen,  O  love!  thy  tears  shall  all  ir. 
dried. 

Dark  must  have  been  the  gushing  of  those  tears. 
Heavy  the  unsleeping  phantom  of  the  tomb 
On  thine  impassion'd  soul,  in  elder  years 
When,  burden'd  with  the  mystery  of  its  doom. 

Mortality's  thick  gloom 

Hung  o'er  the  sunny  world,  and  with  the  breath 
Of  the  triumphant  rose  came  blending  thoughts  it 
death. 

By  thee,  sad  Love,  and  by  thy  sister.  Fear, 
Then,  was  the  ideal  robe  of  beauty  wrought 
To  veil  that  haunting  shadow,  still  too  near. 
Still  ruling  secretly  the  conqueror's  thought. 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


301 


And  whore  the  board  was  fraught 
With  wine  uuil  myrtles  in  the  summer  bower, 
Felt,  e'en  when  disavowal,  a  presence  and  a  power. 

But  that  dark  n  ight  is  closed  :  and  o'er  the  dead, 
Here,  where  the  glen  my  primrose  tufts  have  blown, 
And   where   the   mountain    heath   a  couch   lias 

spread. 
And,  settlin-j  oil  on  some  gray-letter'd  stone; 

The  red  -breast  warbles  lone; 
And  tho  wild  bee's  deep,  drowsy  murmurs  pass 
Like  a  low  thrill  of  harp-strings  through  the  gram. 

Here,  'rriirlst  the  chambers  of  the  Christian's  sleep, 
We  o'er  death's  gulf  may  look  with  trusting  eye, 
For  hopi'  sits,  dove-like,  on  the  gloomy  deep, 
And  the  green  hills  wherein  these  valleys  lie 

"  Seem  nil  one  sanctuary 
Of  holiest  thought— nor  needs  their  fresh  bright 

sod. 
Urn,  wreath  or  shrine,  for  tombs  all  dedicate  to 

God. 

Christ  hath  arisen  !— O  mountain  peaks  I  attest, 
Witness,  resounding  glen  and  torrent-wove, 
The  immortal  courage  in  the  human  breast 
Sprung  from  that  victory— tell  how  oft  the  brave 

To  ramp  'midst  rock  and  cave. 
Nerved  by  those  words,  their  struggling  faith  have 

borne. 
Planting  the  cross  on  high  above  the  clouds  of 

morn. 

The  Alps  have  heard  sweet  hymning*  for  to-day- 
Ay,  and  wilil  sounds  of  sterner,  deeper  tone, 
Have  thrill'd  their  pines,  when  those  that  knelt 

to  pray 
Rose  up  to  arm!  the  pure,  high  snows  have  known 

A  colouring  not  th>-ir  own, 
But  from  true  heails  which  by  that  crimson  stain 
Rave  token  of  a  trust  that  call'd  no  suffering  vain 

Those  days  are   past  —  the  mountains   wear  no 

more 

The  solemn  splendour  of  the  martyr's  blood. 
And  may  thai  awful  record,  as  of  yore. 
Never  again  lie  known  to  field  or  flood  ! 

K'eu  though  tin-  faithful  stood, 
A  noble  army,  in  the  exulting  sight 
Of  earth  and  heaven,  which  blest  their  battle  for 

the  right 

Rut  many  a  martyrdom  by  hearts  unshaken 
Is  yet  borne  silently  in  homes  obscure; 
And  many  a  hitter  rup  is  meekly  taken  ; 
And,  for  the  strength  whereby  the  just  and  pure 

TlniH  steadfastly  endure. 
Glory  to  Him  whose  victory  won  that  dower. 
Him,  from  whose  rising  stream'd  that  robe  of  spirit 
power. 

Glory  to  Him  !  Hope  to  the  suffering  breast  I 
Light  to  the  nations  !  He  hath  roll'd  away 
The  mists,  which,  gathering  into  deathlike  rest, 
Between  the  soul  and  Heaven's  calm  ether  lay — 

His  love  hath  made  it  day 

With  those  that  >at  in  darkness.— Earth  and  seal 
Lift  up  glad  strains  for  man  by  truth  divine  made 
free! 


THE  CHILD  READING  THE  BIBLE 

"A  dancing  «hape,  >n  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  to  waylay. 
•  *  *  • 

A  bring  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  travellfi  between  life  inJ  dealt." 

Worrfiwortt. 


1  SAW  him  fit  his  f.port  erewhilc, 

The  bright  exulting  boy, 
Like  summer's  lightning  came  the  smile 

Of  his  young  spirit's  joy  ; 
A  flash  that  wheresoe'er  it  broke. 
To  life  undreamt-of  beauty  woke. 


His  fair  locks  waved  in  sunny  pla/, 

By  a  clear  fountain'!)  side, 
Where  jewel-colour'd  pebbles  lay 

Beneath  the  shallow  tide  ; 
And  pearly  spray  at  times  would  meet 
The  glancing  of  his  fairy  feet. 

He  twined  him  wreaths  of  all  spring-flcwera, 
'Which  drank  that  streamlet's  dew  ; 

He  flung  them  o'er  the  wave  in  showers, 
Till,  gazing,  scarce  I  knew 

Which  seem'd  more  pure,  or  bright,  or  wild. 

The  singing  fount  or  laughing  child. 

To  look  on  all  that  joy  and  bloom 

Made  earth  one  festal  scene. 
Where  the  dull  shadow  of  the  tomb 

Seem'd  as  it  ne'er  had  linen. 
How  could  one  image  of  decay. 
Steal  o'er  the  dawn  of  such  clear  day? 

I  saw  once  more  that  aspect  bright—- 
The boy's  meek  bend  was  bow'd 

In  silence  o'er  the  Book  of  Light, 
And  like  a  golden  cloud, 

The  still  cloud  of  a  pictured  sky— 

His  locks  droop'd  round  it  lovingly 

And  if  my  heart  had  deem'd  him  fair, 

When  in  the  fountain  glade, 
A  creature  of  the  sky  and  air. 

Almost  on  wings  he  play'd; 
Oh!  how  much  holier  beauty  now 
Lit  the  young  human  being's  brow 

The  being  born  to  toil,  to  die, 

To  break  forth  from  the  tomb, 
Unto  far  nobler  destiny 

Than  waits  the  sky-lark's  plume! 
I  saw  him.  in  that  thoughtful  hour, 
Win  the  first  knowledge  of  his  dower. 

The  Kim!,  the  awakening  soul  I  saw, 

My  watching  eye  could  trace 
The  shadows  of  its  new-born  awe, 

Sweeping  o'er  that  fair  face: 
As  o'er  a  flower  might  pass  the  shade 
By  some  dread  angel's  pinion  made  I 

The  soul,  the  mother  of  deep  fears. 

Of  high  hopes  infinite, 
Of  glorious  dreams,  mysterious  tears, 

Of  sleepless  inner  sight ; 
Lovely,  but  solemn,  it  arose, 
Unfolding  what  no  more  might  close 


The  red-leaved  tablets,*  undefined, 
As  yet,  by  evil  thought — 

Oh  I    little  drpilin'il   the   hninrjin  ir  cli 


id  stirr  d 


Anil  reverently  my  spirit  caught 

The  reverence  of  hit  ga/.e, 
A  sight  with  dew  of  blessing  fraught 

To  hallow  after-days ; 
To  make  the  proud  heart  meekly  wise, 
By  the  sweet  faith  in  those  calm  eye*. 

It  seem'd  as  if  a  temple  rose 

Before  me  brightly  there. 
And  in  the  depths  of  its  repose 

My  soul  o'erflow'd  with  prayer, 
Feeling  a  solemn  presence  nigh — 
The  power  of  infant  sanctity  1 

O  Father  !  mould  my  heart  once  more. 

By  thy  prevailing  breath  ! 
Teach  me.  oh  !  teach  me  to  adore 

E'en  with  that  pure  one's  faith; 
A  faith,  all  made  of  love  and  light, 
Child-like,  and,  therefore,  full  of  might 


*  "  All  this,  and  more  than  this,  a  now  engraved  gpo*  tM  I 
tavcd  latttti  of  LIT  heart."— / 


302 


REMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  POET'S  DYING  HYMN. 


Be  mute  who  will,  who  can, 
Tet  I  will  praise  tin*  with  impanion'd  voiea  I 
Me  didst  thou  cnnstitute  a  priest  of  thine 
In  luch  a  temple  as  we  now  behold, 
Rear'd  for  thy  presence  ;  therefore  IB  I  bound 
To  worship,  here  and  everywhere. 


THE  blue,  deep,  glorious  heavens  !—  1  lift  mine  ejr«, 
And  liless  thee,  O  my  God  !  that  I  have  met 

And  nwn'd  thine  image  in  the  majesty 
Of  their  calm  temple  still  !—  that  never  yet 

There  hath  thy  face  been  shrouded  from  my  sight 

By  noontide  blaze,  or  sweeping  storm  of  night: 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  I 

.That  now  still  clearer,  from  their  pure  expanse, 
I  see  the  mercy  of  thine  aspect  shine, 

Touching  death's  features  with  a  lovely  glance 
Of  light,  serenely,  solemnly  divine, 

And  lending  to  each  holy  star  a  ray 

As  of  kind  eyes,  that  woo  my  soul  away: 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  I 

That  I  have  heard  thy  voice,  nor  been  afraid, 
In  the  earth's  gaiden  —  'midst  the  mountains  old, 

And  the  low  tlirilliugs  of  the  forest  shade, 
And  the  wild  sou  rids  of  waters  uncontroll'd, 

And  upon  many  a  desert  plain  and  shore  — 

No  solitude—  for  there  I  felt  tliee  more  : 

I  bless  thee,  O  my  God! 

And  if  thy  spirit  on  thy  child  hath  shed 
The  gift,  the  vision  of  !he  unseal'd  eye, 

To  pierce  the  mist  o'er  life's  deep  meanings  spread, 
To  reach  the  hidden  f.mntain-urns  that  lie 

Far  in  man's  heart—  if  I  have  kept  it  free 

And  pure  —  a  consecration  unto  thee: 

I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  ! 

If  my  soul's  utterance  hath  by  thee  been  fraught 
With  an  awakening  power—  if  thou  hast  mad.:, 

Like  the  wing'd  seed,  the  breathings  of  my  thought 
And  by  the  swift  winds  bid  them  be  convey'd 

To  lands  of  other  lays,  and  there,  become 

Native  as  early  melodies  of  home  : 

I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  I 

Not  for  the  brightness  of  a  mortal  wreath, 
Not  for  a  place  'midst  kingly  minstrels  dead, 

But  that  perchance,  a  faint  gule  of  thy  breath, 
A  still  small  whisper  in  my  song  hath  led 

One  struggling  spirit  upwards  to  thy  throne, 

Or  but  one  hope,  one  prayer:  —  for  this  alone 
[  bless  thee,  O  my  God  ! 

That  I  have  loved—  that  I  have  known  the  love 
Which  troubles  in  the  soul  the  tearful  springs, 

Vet,  with  a  colouring  halo  from  above, 
Tinges  and  glorifies  all  earthly  things, 

Whate'er  its  anguish  or  its  woe  may  be, 

Still  weaving  links  for  intercourse  with  thee: 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  I 

That  hy  the  passion  of  its  deep  distress, 
And  by  the  o'crflowing  of  its  mighty  prayer, 

And  by  the  yearning  of  its  tenderness, 
Too  full  Tor  words  u(>on  their  stream  to  bear, 

I  have  been  drawn  still  closer  to  thy  shrine, 

Well-s|>riiig  of  love,  the  unfaihom'd,  the  divine; 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  t 

That  hopt  hath  ne'er  my  heart  or  song  forsaken, 
High  hope,  which  even  from  mystery,  doubt,  or 

dread, 
Calmly,  rejoicingly,  the  things  hath  taken, 

Whereby  its  torrhli-jlit  for  the  race  was  fed, 
That  passing  storms  have  only  fann'd  the  fire, 
Which  pierced  them  still  with  its  triumphal  spire, 
1  bless  thee.  O  my  God  t 


Xow  art  thou  calling  me  in  every  gnle, 
Each  sound  und  token  of  the  dying  day: 

Thou  leav'st  me  not.  though  early  life  grow*  pufe 
I  am  not  darkly  sinking  to  decay  : 

But,  hour  by  hour,  my  soul's  dissolving  shroud 

Melts  off  to  radiance,  as  a  silvery  cloud. 

I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  1 

And  if  this  earth,  with  all  its  choral  streams, 
And  crowning  woods,  and  soft  or  solemn  iki» 

And  mountain  sanctuaries  for  (Kiel's  dreauia, 
Be  lovely  still  in  my  departing  eyes — 

"I'is  not  that  fondly  I  would  linger  here, 

But  that  thy  foot-prints  on  its  dust  appear: 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  ! 

And  that  the  tender  shadowing  I  behold. 
The  tracery  vein  ing  every  leaf  and  flower, 

Of  glories  cast  in  more  consummate  mould, 
No  longer  vassals  to  the  changeful  hour; 

That  life's  last  roses  to  my  thoughts  can  bring 

Rich  visions  of  imperishable  spring  : 

I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  t 

Yes  !  the  young  vernal  voices  in  the  skies 
Woo  me  not  back,  but,  wandering  past  mine  eat 

Seem  heralds  of  Hi'  eternal  melodies, 
The  spirit-music,  inipi-rliirli'd  and  clear; 

The  full  of  soul,  yet  passionate  no  more — 

Let  me  too,  joining  those  pure  strains,  adore! 
I  bless  thee,  O  my  God  t 

Now  aid,  sustain  me  still !— to  thee  1  come, 
Make  thou  my  dwelling  where  thy  children  arc 

And  for  the  hope  of  that  immortal  home. 
And  for  thy  Son,  the  bright  and  morning  star, 

The  sufferer  and  the  victor-king  of  death, 

I  Mess  thee  with  my  glad  song's  dying  breath! 
1  b'ess  thee,  O  my  God  I 


FUNERAL  DAY  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 


Mij  wail  the  dimming  of  < 


*f  aii  eye 

:  shining  star. 

SltaJaptan. 


A  glorious  voice  hath  ceased  ! — 
Mournfully,  reverently— the  funeral  chant 
Breathe  reverently  ! — There  i*  a  dreamy  sound, 
A  hollow  murmur  of  the  dying  year, 
In  the  deep  woods : — l>'t  it  be  wild  and  sad  I 
A  more  /Eolian  melancholy  tone 
Than  ever  wail'd  o'er  bright  things  perishing! 
For  that  is  passing  from  the  darken'd  land, 
Which  the  green  summer  will  not  bring  us  back- 
Though  all  her  songs  return — The  funeral  chant 
Breathe  reverently!— They  bear  the  mighty  forth. 
The  kingly  ruler  in  the  realms  of  mind — 
They  bear  him  through  the  household  paths,  the 

groves. 

Where  every  tree  had  music  of  its  own 
To  his  quick  ear  of  knowledge  taught  by  love — 
And  he  is  silent! — Past  the  living  stream 
They  bear  him  now  ;  the  stream,  whose   kirri'y 

voice 

On  alien  shores  his  true  heart  burn'd  to  hear— 
And  he  is  silent.    O'er  the  heathery  hills. 
Which  his  own  soul  had  mantled  with  a  light 
Richer  than  autumn's  purple,  now  they  move — 
And  he  is  silent ! — he,  whose  flexile  lips 
Were  but  unseal'd,  and.  lo!  a  thousand  forms. 
From  every  pastoral  glen  and  fern-clad  height, 
In  glowing  life  upsprang  : — Vassal  and  chief, 
Rider  and  steed,  with  shout  and  bugle-peal. 
Fast  rushing  through  the  brightly  troubled  air, 
Like  the  wild  huntsman's  band.    And  still  thrj 

live. 

To  those  fair  scenes  imperii>hahly  bound, 
And,  from  the  mountain  mist  still  lashing  by. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


80S 


Hlartle  the  vvnmlerer  who  hath  listen'd  there 
To  lli»,-  seer's  voice  :  phantoms  of  colour'd  thought 
Surviving  him  who  raided.— O  eloquence  I 
()  power,  whose  breatnings  thus  could  wake  tb 

dead! 

\Vho  shall  wake  thee?  lord  of  the  buried  past! 
^id  art  thon  there— In  those  dim  nations  join'd. 
Thy  subject  host  so  long?— The  wand  is  dropp'd, 
Thi'  bright  lamp  broken  which  the  gifted  hand 
Touch'd  and  the  genii  came  ! — Sing  reverently 
The  funeral  chant !— The  mighty  is  borne  home- 
Ami  who  shall  be  his  mourners? — Youth  and  ajf* 
For  each  hath  felt  his  magic—  love  and  grief. 
For  he  hath  communed  with  the  heart  of  each  ; 
Yes — the  free  spirit  of  hiinnnily 
May  join  the  august  procession,  for  to  him 
UR  mysteries  have  been  tributary  things, 
And  all  its  accents  known  :—  from  field  or  ware, 
Never  was  conqueror  on  his  battle  bier, 
By  the  vail'd  banner  and  the  muffled  drum. 
And  the  proud  drooping  of,lhe  crested  head. 
More  nobly  follovv'd  home. — The  last  abode, 
The  voiceless  dwelling  of  the  bard  is  reach'd: 
A  still  majestic  spot!  girt  solemnly 
With  all  th'  imploring  heanty  of  decay  ; 
A  stately  couch  'midst  ruins!  meet  for  him 
With  his  bright  fame  to  rest  in,  as  a  kin); 
c>f  other  days,  laid  lonely  with  his  sword 
Repeat!)  his  head.     Sing  reverently  the  chant 
O'er  the  honour'd  grave  ! — the  gravel— oh,  say 
Rather  the  shrine!— An  altar  for  the  love, 
The  light,  soft  pilgrim  steps,  the  votive  wreaths 
Of  years  unborn— a  place  where  leaf  and  flowei 
By  that  which  dies  not  of  the  sovereign  dead, 
Shall  be  made  holy  thinsrs— where  every  weed 
Khali  have  its  portion  of  th'  inspiring  gift 
From  buried  glory  breathed.  A  nd  now,  what  strain 
Making  victorious  melody  ascend 
High  above  sorrow's  dirge,  befits  the  tomb 
Where  he  that  sway'd  the  nations  thus  is  laid — 
The  crown'd  of  men  ? 

A  lowly,  lowly  song 

Lowly  and  solemn  be 
Thy  children's  cry  to  thee, 

Father  divine  ! 
A  hymn  of  suppliant  breath. 
Owning  that  life  and  death 

Alike  are  thine  1 

A  spirit  on  its  way, 
Scepired  the  earth  to  sway, 

FKOIII  thee  was  sent : 
Now  call'st  tltou  back  thine  own- 
Hence  is  th.it  rniliance  flown — 

To  earth  but  lent. 

Watching  in  breathless  awe. 
The  In  lulu  head  linvv'd  we  saw. 

Beneath  thy  hand  1 
Fill'd  by  one  hope,  one  fear, 
Now  o'er  a  brother's  bier, 

Weeping  we  stand. 

flow  hath  lie  pass'd  !—  the  lord 
Of  each  deep  hnsoin  chord, 

To  meet  thy  sight, 
Unmantled  ami  alone, 
On  thy  blest  mercy  thrown, 

O  Infinite! 

So,  from  his  harvest  home, 
Must  the  tired  peasant  come; 

S:>.  in  one  trust, 
Leader  and  king  must  yield 
The  naked  soul,  reveal'd 

To  thee.  All  Just! 

The  sword  of  many  a  fight— 
What  then  shall  he  its  might? 

The  lofty  lay. 

That  riish'd  on  easle  wing — 
What  shall  its  memory  bring? 

What  hope,  what  stay  ? 


O  Father!  in  that  hour. 

When  earth  nil  succourin 
Shall  dUuvow; 

When  spear,  and  shield,  and  crown, 

In  fainlness  are  cast  down- 
Sustain  us,  Thou  I 

By  Him  who  bow'd  to  take 
The  death-cup  for  our  sake. 

The  thorn,  the  r»d  ; 
From  whom  the  last  dismay 
Was  not  to  pass  away — 

Aid  us,  O  God ! 

Tremblers  beside  the  grave. 
We  call  on  thee  to  save, 

Father,  divine  I 

Hear,  hear  our  suppliant  breath. 
Keep  us,  in  life  and  death, 

Thine,  only  thine1 


THE  PRAYER  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

Suggested  by  a  Picture  of  Corregio's. 

TN  the  deep  wilderness  unseen  she  pray'd, 

The  daughter  of  Jerusalem;  alone. 

With  all  the  still  small  whispers  of  the  night. 

And  with  the  searching  glances  of  the  stars. 

And  with  her  God.  alone:— she  lifted  up 

Her  sweet,  sad  voice,  and.  trembling  o'er  her  head 

The  dark  leaves  thrill'd  with  prayer — the  tearfu 

prayer 
Of  woman  a  quenchless,  yet  repentant  love. 

Father  of  Spirits,  hear! 
Look  on  the  inmost  heart  to  thee  reveal'd. 
Look  on  the  fountain  of  the  burning  tear. 
Before  thy  sight  in  solitude  unseal'dl 

Hear,  Father!  hear,  <ind  aid! 
If  I  have  loved  ton  well,  if  I  have  shed. 
In  my  vain  fondness,  o'er  a  mortal  head, 
Gifts,  on  thy  shrine,  my  God  !  more  fitly  laid. 

If  I  have  sought  to  live 
But  in  one  light,  and  made  a  human  eye 
The  lonely  star  of  mine  idolatry, 
Thou  that  art  Love!  oh,  pity  and  forgive' 

Chasten'd  and  school'd  at  last. 
No  more,  tio  more  my  struggling  spirit  burns, 
But  fix'd  on  thee,  from  that  wild  worship  turng- 
What  have  I  said  ? — the  deep  dream  is  not  past ! 

Yet  hear!— if  still  I  love, 
Oh!  still  too  fondly — if.  forever  seen, 
An  earthly  iinasre  comes,  my  heart  between, 
And  thy  calm  glory,  Father  I  throned  above  I 

If  still  a  voice  is  near, 

(E'en  while  I  strive  these  wanderings  to  contro",) 
An  earthly  voice,  disquieting  my  soul 
With  its  deep  music,  too  intensely  dear. 

0  Father  draw  to  thee 

My  lost  affections  back ! — the  dreaming  eye* 
Clear  from  their  mist— sustain  the  heart  that  diet, 
Give  the  worn  soul  once  more  its  pinions  free  I 

1  must  love  on,  O  God! 

This  bosom  must  love  on  !  hut  let  thy  breath 
Touch  and  make  pure  the  flame  that  knows  no 

death, 
Bearing  it  up  to  Heaven  !— Love's  own  abode! 

Aees  and  ages  past,  the  wilderness, 
With  its  dark  cedars,  and  the  thrilling  night, 
kVith  her  clear  stars,  and  the  mysterious  winds. 
That  waft   all  sound,   were  conscious  of  thone 

prayers. 

How  many  such  hath  woman's  bursting  heart 
Since  then,  in  silence  anil  in  darkness  breathed, 
Ijke  the  dim  night-flower's  odour,  up  to  (tod? 


304 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


PRISONERS*    EVENING    SERVICE 

A   SCENE   OF  THE   FRENCH   REVOLUTION.* 


From  their  spheres 

The  stars  of  human  glory  are  cast  down ; 
Perish  the  roses  and  the  flowers  of  kings, 
Princes  and  jempernrs,  and  the  crown  and  palms 
Of  all  the  mighty,  wither'd  and  consumed ! 
Nor  is  power  given  to  lowliest  innocence 
Long  to  protect  her  own. 

Wordtworth. 


—  Prison  of  the  Luxembourg, 'in  Paris,  during 
the  Reign  of  Terror. 

D'AoBioNE,  an  aged  Royalist — BLANCHE,  hit 
Daughter,  a  young  girl. 

Blanche.    What  was  our  doom,  my  father? — In 

thine  arms 

I  lay  unconsciously  through  that  dread  hour. 
Tell  me  the  sentence!— Could  our  judges  look, 
Without  relenting,  on  thy  silvery  hair? 
Was  there  not  mercy,  father?— Will  they  not 
Restore  us  to  our  home. 

D'Aubigjit.  Yes,  my  poor  child ! 

They  send  us  home. 

Blanche.  Oh!  shall  we  gaze  again 

On  th*  bright  Loire  1— Will  the  old^hamlet  spire, 
And  the  (.'ray  turret  of  our  own  chateau, 
LOOK  forth  to  greet  us  through  the  dusky  elms? 
Will  the  kind  voices  of  our  villagers. 
The  loving  lauehter  in  their  children's  eyes. 
Welcome  us  back  at  last  ? — But  how  is  this? — 
Father !  thy  glance  is  clouded — on  thy  brow. 
There  fcits  no  joy  ! 

D'Jiubigne.          Upon  my  brow,  dear  girl, 
There  sits,  I  trust,  such  deep  and  solemn  peace 
As  may  befit  the  Christian,  who  receives 
And  recognizes,  in  submissive  awe. 
The  summons  of  his  God. 

Blanche.  Thou  dost  not  mean- 

No,  no!  it  cannot  bel — Didst  thou  not  say 
They  sent  us  home  ? 

D'Aubigne.  Where  is  the  spirit's  home  ?— 

Oh !  most  of  all,  in  these  dark  evil  days. 
Where  should  it  be— but  in  that  world  serene, 
Beyond  the  sword's  reach,  and  the  tempest's  pow- 
er— 
Where,  but  in  Heaven? 

Blanche.  My  father! 

D'Jlubigne.  We  must  die. 

We  must  look  up  to  God,  and  calmly  die. — 
Oome  to  my  heart,  and  weep  there  ! — for  awhile 
Give  Nature's  passion  way,  then  brightly  rise 
In  the  still  courage  of  a  woman's  heart  I 
Do  I  not  know  thee  ?— Ho  I  ask  too  much 
From  mine  own  noble  Blanche  ? 

Blanche,  (falling  on  his  bosom.)  Oht  Clasp  me 

fast! 
Thy  trembling  child  1  — Hide,  bide  me  in  thine 

arms — 
Father ! 

D' Jlubignt.    Alas!  my  flower,  thou'rt  young  to 

go— 

Young,  and  so  fair!— Yet  were  it  worse  mctliinki, 
To  leave  thee  where  the  gentle  and  the  brave, 
The  loyal-hearted  and  the  chivalrous, 
And  they  that  loved  their  God.  have  all  been  swept, 
Like  the  sere  leaves,  away. — For  them  no  hearth 
Through  the  wide  land  was  left  inviolate, 
No  altar  holy  ;  therefore  iliil  they  fall. 
Rejoicing  to  depart.— The  soil  is  steep'd 
In  noble  blood  !  the  temples  are  pone  down; 
The  voice  of  prnyer  is  hush'd,  or  fearfully 
Multer'd,  like  sounds  of  guilt.— Why,  who  would 
live  ? 

•  The  last  divs  of  two  prisoners  in  the  Lnrembourr,  Sillery  and 
If  Sourer,  so  a»Vctins;ly  described  by  Helen  Maria  Williams,  in 
her  Letters  from  Francs,  rave  rise  to  this  tittle  scene.  These  two 
victims  had  composed  a  jiirple  hymn,  which  they  every  night  tun 
loj»ther  in  a  low  ami  restrained  voice. 


Who  hath  not  panted,  as  a  dove,  to  flee. 
To  quit  for  ever  the  dishonoured  soil. 
The  burden'd  air  ?— Our  God  upon  the  cross — 
Our  king  upon  the  scaffold*— let  us  think 
Of  these— Ami  fold  endurance  to  our  hearts. 
And  bravely  die ! 

Blanche.  A  dark  and  fearful  way! 

An  evil  doom  for  thy  dear  honniir'd  head! 
Oh!  thou,  the  kind. 'the  gracious  !— whom  allevw 
Bless'd  as  they  look'd  upon  !— Speak  yet  again— 
Say,  will  they  part  us  ? 

D'Jlubigne.  No,  my  Blanche ;  in  death 

We  shall  not  be  divided. 

Blanche.  Thanks  In  God  I 

He,  by  thy  glance,  will  aid  me— I  shall  see 
His  light  before  me  to  the  last. — And  when — 
Oh!  pardon  these  weak  shrinkingsof  thy  child  I—- 
When shall  the  hour  befall  ? 

D'dubigne.  Oh!  swiftly  now, 

And  suddenly,  with  brief  ilread  interval. 
Comes  down  the  mortal  stroke.— But  of  that  hour 
|  As  yet  I  know  not.— Each  low  throbbing  pulse 
Of  the  quick  pendulum  may  usher  in 
Eternity! 
Blanche,  (kneeling  before  him.)  My  father!  lay 

thy  hand 

On  thy  poor  Blanche's  head,  and  once  again 
Bless  her  with  thy  deep  voice  of  tenderness, 
Thus  breathing  saintly  courage  through  her  soul. 
Ere  we  are  call'd. 

D'JJubigne.        If  I  may  speak  through  tears! — 
Well  may  I  hless  thee,  fondly,  fervently. 
Child  of  my  heart!— thou  who  dost  look  on  me 
With  thy  lost  mother's  anucl  eyes  of  lovel 
Thou  that  hast  been  a  brightness  in  my  path, 
A  guest  of  Heaven  unto  my  lonely  soul, 
A  stainless  lily  in  my  wiilow'd  house. 
There  springing  up  —  with  soft  light  round  thee 

shed— 

For  immortality  ! — Meek  child  of.God  ! 
I  bless  thee— lit  will  lilcss  theel — In  his  love 
He  calls  thee  now  fiom  this  rude  stormy  world 
To  thy  Redeemer's  breast. — And  thou  wilt  die! 
As  thou  hast  lived— my  duteous,  holy  Blanche! 
In  trusting  and  serene  suhiiiissiveness, 
Humble,  yet  full  of  Heaven. 

Blanche,  (rising.)  Now  is  there  strength 

Infused  through  all  my  spirit. — I  can  rise 
And  say,  "Thy  will  be  done  !" 
D'rfubigne,  (pointing  upifards.)    See'st  thou,  my 

child. 

Yon  faint  light  in  the  west  ?    The  signal  star 
Of  our  due  vesper  service,  gleaming  in 
Through  the  close  dungeon  Crating!    Mournfully 
ft  seems  to  quiver ;  yet  shall  this  night  pass, 
This  night  alone,  without  the  lifted  voice 
Of  adoration  in  our  narrow  cell. 
As  if  unworthy  Fear  or  wavering  Faith 
Silenced  the  strain?— No!  let  it  waft  to  Heaven 
Tne  prayer,  the  hop."  of  poor  mortality, 
In  its  dark  hoi. notice  more!— And  wo  will  sleep- 
Yes — calmly  sleep,  when  our  last  rite  is  closed. 

[  They  sing  together. 

PRISONERS'  EVENING  HYMN. 

We  see  no  more  in  thy  pure  skies, 
How  soft,  O  Goil !  the'sunset  dies: 
How  every  colon r'd  hill  and  wood 
Seems  melting  in  the  golden  Hood: 
Yet,  by  the  precious  memories  won 
From  bright  hours  now  for  ever  gone. 
Father!  o'er  all  thv  works,  we  know, 
Thou  still  art  shp'idinsr  i.er.uty's  glow; 
Still  touching  every  cloud  and  tree 
With  glory,  eloquent  of  Thee; 
Still  feeding  all  thy  flowers  with  light. 
Though  man  hath  barr'd  it  from  our  sight. 


*  A  French  royalist  officer,  dying  upon  a  field  of  battle,  and  IK^ 
ng  some  one  near  him  ut  t-rin«  the  most  plaintive  lamentation* 
timed  towards  the  sufferer,  and  II  us  addressed  him  .  "My  frieno, 
whoever  you  maybe,  reinei»hrt  ihat  your  God  expired  upon  tn* 
cross — your  king  upon  lht>  sc*tf  'id — and  he  who  now  speaks  to  yo« 
has  had  his  limtu  shot  from  under  him.  Meet  your  fate  u  F 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


369 


We  know  Thou  reign'st,  the  Unchanging  One,  th 

All  Just ! 
And  bless  thee  still  with  free  and  boundless  trust 

We  read  no  more,  O  God  !  thy  ways 
On  earth,  in  these  wild  evil  days. 
The  red  sword  in  th'  oppressor's  hand 
Is  ruler  of  the  weeping  land  ; 
Fallen  are  the  faithful  and  the  pure, 
No  shrine  is  spared,  no  hearth  secure. 
Yet,  by  the  deep  voice  from  the  past, 
Which  tells  us  these  things  cannot  last — 
And  by  the  hope  which  finds  no  a<k. 
Save  in  thy  breast,  when  storms  grow  dark — 
We  trust  thee!— As  the  sailor  knows 
That  in  its  place  of  bright  repose 
His  pole-slur  burns,  tlinii}:h  mist  and  cloud 
May  veil  it  with  a  midnight  shroud. 
We  know  thou  reigu'st!— All  Holy  One,  All  Just 
And  bless  thee  still  with  love'sown  boundless  trust 

We  feel  no  more  that  aid  is  nigh. 
When  our  faint  hearts  within  us  die. 
We  suffer — and  we  know  our  doom 
Must  be  one  suffering  till  the  tomb. 
Yet,  by  the  anguish  of  thy  Son 
When  his  last  hour  came  darkly  on — 
By  his  dread  cry,  the  air  which  rent 
In  terror  of  abandonment — 
And  by  his  parting  word,  which  rose 
Through  faith  victorious  o'er  all  woes—- 
We know  that  Thou  mayst  wound,  mayst  break 
The  spirit,  but  wilt  ne'er  forsake! 
Sad  suppliants  whom  our  brethren  spurn. 
In  our  deep  need  to  Thee  we  turn  ! 

To  whom  but  Thee?— All  Merciful,  All  Just! 

In  life,  in  death,  we  yield  thee  boundless  trust. 


HYMN  OF  THE  VAUDOIS  MOUNTAINEERS 
IN  TIMES  OF  PERSECUTION. 


4  Thinks  be  to  God  for  the  mountain*  !* 

Uuunltt  Book  of  (At  Staioru. 


FOR  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee. 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  Godl 
Thou  hast  made  ihy  children  mighty, 

By  the  touch  of  the  mountain  sod. 
Thou  hast  fix'd  our  ark  of  refuge 

Where  the  spoiler's  foot  ne'er  trod ; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  I 

We  are  watchers  of  a  beacon 

Whose  light  must  never  die; 
We  are  guardians  of  an  altar 

'Midst  the  silence  of  the  sky: 
The  rocks  yield  founts  of  courage, 

Struck  forth  as  by  thy  rod ; 
For  the  strengh  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  1 

For  the  dark  resounding  caverns, 

Where  thy  still,  small  voice  is  beard; 
For  the  strong  pines  of  the  forests. 

That  by  thy  breath  are  stirr'd  ; 
For  the  storms,  on  whose  free  pinions 

Thy  spirit  walks  abroad; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee. 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God! 

The  royal  eagle  darteth 

On  his  quarry  from  the  heights, 
And  the  stag  that  knows  no  master, 

Seeks  there  his  wild  delights; 
But  we,  for  thy  communion, 

Hiive  sought  the  mountain  sod; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  thee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  Godl 


The  banner  of  the  chieftain, 

Fai.  far  below  us  waves; 
The  war-horse  of  the  spearman 

Cannot  reach  our  lofty  caves: 
Thy  dark  clouds  wrap  the  threshold 

Of  freedom's  last  abode  ; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  the*, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  ! 

For  the  shadow  of  thy  presence, 

Round  our  camp  of  rock  outspread , 
For  the  stern  defiles  of  battle. 

Bearing  record  of  our  dead ; 
For  the  snows  and  for  the  torrents. 

For  the  free  heart's  burial  sod; 
For  the  strength  of  the  hills  we  bless  tbee, 

Our  God,  our  fathers'  God  1 


THE  INDIAN'S  REVENGE. 

SCENE   IN   THE    LIKE   Of  A    MORAVIAN    MISSIONARY.* 


But  by  my  wrongs  and  by  my  wrath, 
To-morrow  Areouski'i  breath 
That  fires  yon  Heaven  with  itomu  of  death. 
Shall  guide  me  to  the  foe  ! 

Indian  Song  in  "  Gertrude  of  Wyoming." 

SCENE—  The  shore  of  a  Lake  surrounded  by  deep 
woods.  Ji  solitary  cabin  on  its  banks,  overshadowed 
by  maple,  and  sycamore  trees.  HERRMANN,  Ihr. 
missionary,  seated  alone  before  the  calm.  Tht 
hour  is  frenii'ff  twilight. 
Herrmann.  Was  that  the  light  from  some  lone 

swift  canoe 
Shooting  across  the  waters?— No,  a  flash 
From  the  night's  first  quick  fire-fly,  lost  again 
In  the  deep  bay  of  cedars.     Not  a  bark 
Is  on  the  wave;  no  rustle  of  a  breeze 
Comes  through  the  forest.     In  this  new,  strange 

world, 

Oh    how  mysterious,  how  eternal,  seems 
The.  mighty  melancholy  of  the  woods! 
The  desert's  own  great  spirit,  infinite! 
Little  they  know,  in  mine  own  father-land. 
Along  the  castled  Rhine,  or  e'en  amidst 
The  wild  Hara  mountains,  or  the  sylvan  glade* 
Deep  in  the  Odenwalil,  they  little  know 
Of  what  is  solitude!     In  hours  like  this, 
There,  from  a  thousand  nooks,  the  cottage  hearth* 
Pour  forth  red  light  through  vine-hung  lattices. 
To  guide  the  peasant,  singing  cheerily, 
On  the  home  path;  while  round  his  lowly  porch, 
With  eager  eyes  awaiting  his  return. 
The  cluster'd 'faces  of  his  children  shine 
To  the  clear  harvest  moon.   Be  still,  fond  thoughts! 
Melting  my  spirit's  grasp  from  heavenly  hope 
By  your  vain  earthward  yearnings.    O  my  God  I 
Draw  me  still  nearer,  closer  unto  thee, 
Till  all  the  hollow  of  these  deep  desires 
May  with  thyself  be  fill'd!— Be  it  enough 
At  once  to  gladden  and  to  solemnize 
My  lonely  life,  if  for  thine  altar  here 
[n  this  dread  temple  of  the  wilderness. 
By  prayer,  and  toil,  and  watching,  I  may  win 
The  offering  of  one  heart,  one  human  heart 
Bleeding,  repenting,  loving! 

Hark !  a  step. 

An  Indian  tread  !  I  know  the  stealthy  sound— 
Tis  on  some  quest  of  evil,  through  the  grass 
Gliding  so  serpent-like. 

[He  comes  forward  and  meet*  an  Indian 
warrior  armed. 

Enonio,  is  it  thou  ?  I  see  thy  form 
Tower  stately  through  the  dusk,  yet  scarce  mine  eye 
)iscerns  thy  face. 

Enonio.  My  father  speaks  my  name. 

Herrman-i.    Are  not  the  hunters  from  the  chaN 

return  'd? 
The  night-fires  lit?   Why  is  my  son  abroad? 


*  Circunutanec*  similar  to  those  on  which  this  tcene  il  (minded, 
•e  recorded  in  Carne'i  Narrative  of  the  Moravian  Minions  ill  Grew 
tod,  and  gave  rim  to  the  dramatic  sketch 


J06 


HEMAXS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Enonio.     The  warrior's   arrow  knows  of 

njbler  prey 

Than  elk  or  deer.    Now  let  my  father  leave 
The  lone  path  free 

Herrmann.  The  forest  way  is  long 

From  the  red  chieftain's  home.     K  jet  thee  awile 
Beneath  my  sycamore,  and  we  will  speak 
Of  these  things  further. 

Eiumio.  Tell  me  not  of  rest ! 

My  heart  is  sleepless,  and  the  dark  night  dwift. — 
I  must  begone. 

Herrmann,    (solemnly)   No,  warrior,  thou 

must  stay ! 

The  Mighty  One  hath  given  me  powerto  search 
Thy  soul  with  piercing  words — and  thou  must  stay. 
And  hear  me.  and  give  answer!  If  thy  heart 
Be  grown  thus  restless,  is  it  not  because 
Within  its  dark  folds  thou  hast  mantled  up 
Si  .me  burning  thought  of  ill  ?— 
E.icnio  (with  truddenimpetuo<rity.)TIo'wshoald 

I  rest?— 

Last  night  the  spirit  of  my  brother  came. 
An  angry  shadow  in  the  moonlight  streak, 
Andsaid,  "Avenge  me!  ' — In  the  clouds  this  morn 
I  saw  the  frowning  color  of  his  blood — 
And  that,  too,  had  a  voice. — I  lay  at  noon 
Alone  beside  the  sounding  waterfall. 
And  through  its  thunder  music  spake  a  tone— 
A  low  tone  piercing  all  the  roll  of  waves — 
And  sa'.d,"  Avenge  me"! — Therefore  have  I  raised 
The  tomahawk,  and  strung  the  bow  ag-un 
That  I  may  send  the  shadow  from  my  touch, 
And  take  tiie  strange  sound  from  the  cataract, 
And  sleer*  once  more. 

Herrmann.  A  better  path,  my  son, 

Unto  the  still  and  dewy  land  of  sleep, 
My  hand  in  peace  can  guide  the — e'en  the  way 
Thy  dying  brother  trod. — Say,  dist  thou  love 
That  lost  one  well  t 

E:ii>nio.  Know'gt  thou  not  we  grew  up 

Even  as  twin  roes  amidst  the  wilderness? 
Uuto  the  chase  we  journey 'd  in  one  path; 
We  stemmed  the  lake  in  one  canoe;  we  lay 
Beneath  one  oak  to  rest. — When  fever  hung 
•  Upon  my  burning  lips,  my  brother's  hand 
WaattiUb  ^neiith  my  head;  my  brother's  rohe 
Cover'd  my  bosom  from  the  chill  night  air. 
Our  lives  were  girdled  by  one  belt  of  love, 
Until  ho  turn'd  him  from  his  fathers*  gods, 
And  then  my  soul  fellfrom  him — thenthegrass 
Grew  in  the  way  between  our  parted  homes, 
And  wheresoo'er  I  wander'd,  then  it  seem'd 
That  all  the  woods  were  silent. — I  went  forth — 
I  journeyed,  with  my  lonely  heart,  afar 
And  so  return'd — and  where  was  he? — the  earth 
Owned  him  no  more. 

Hei-rmann.  But  thou  thypelf.  since  then, 
Hast  turned  thee  from  the  Hols  of  thy  tribe, 
And  like  thy  brother,bow'd the  suppliantknee 
To  the  one  God. 

Fnonio.  Yes,  I  have  learn'd  to  pray 

W  ith  my  white  father's  words.yet  all  the  more 
My  heart,  that  shut  against  my  brther's  love. 
Hath  been  within  me  as  an  arrowy  fire. 
Burning  my  sleep  away  — In  the  night  hush, 
'Mid  st  t  he  strange  whispers  and  dim  shadowy 

things 

Of  the  great  forests  I  have  call'd  aloud, 
"Brother!  forgive,  forgive!" — He  answered  not — 
His  deep  voice,  rising  from  the  land  of  souls 
Cries  but  *'  Avenge  me!" — and  I  go  forth  now 
To  slay  his  murderer,  that  when  next  h  is  eyes 
Gleam  on  mt  mournfully  from  that  pale  shore 
I  may  lo.>k  up  and  meet  their  glance,  and  say 
"  I  h'ive  avenged  thee." 

Herrmann  Oh !  that  human  love 

Should  be  the  root  of  this  dre^d  bitterness, 
Till  heaven  t  hrough  all  the  f  e  ver'd  beingpours 
Transmitting  balsam! — Stay,  Enonio,  stay! 
Thy  brother  calls  thee  not ! — The  spirit  world 
Where  the  departed  go,  sends  bark  to  earth 
No  visitants  for  evil.— 'Tis  tho  might 
Of  the  strong  passion,  the  remorseful  grief 
At  work  in  thiue  own  breast,  which  lends  the  voic< 
Unto  the  forest  and  the  cataract. 
The  angry  colour  to  the  clouds  of  morn. 


The  shadow  to  the  moonlight.— Stay, my  son! 
fhy  brother  is  at  peace  —Beside  his  couch, 
Vhen  of  the  murderer'spoison'd  shaft  he  died, 
knelt  and  pray'd  ;  he  named  his  Saviour's  name 
tteekly,  beseechingly  he  spoke  of  thee 
pity  and  in  love. 

•nonit,  (hurriedly.)    Did  he  not  say 
Sty  arrow  should  avenge  him  ? 

Herrmann.  His  lart  words 

Were  all  forgiveness 

Enonio.  What !  and  shall  the  man 

Who  pierced  him  with  the  fhaf  t  of  treachery, 
Walk  fearless  forth  in  joy  ? 

Herrmann.  Was  he  not  once 

Thy  b  ro  Cher's  f  riend  ?— Oh !  trust  me, not  in  jey 
He  walks  the  frowning  forest.  Did  keen  love, 
Too  late  repentant  of  its  heart  estranged, 
Wake  in  thy  haunted  bosom,  with  its  train 
3f  sounds  and  shadows — andshaFAaescape? 
E  " onio,  dream  it  not ! — Our  God,  the  All  Just, 
Unto  himself  reserves  this  royalty — 
The  secret  chastening  of  the  puilty  heart, 
The  fiery  touch,  the  pcourge  that  purifies, 
Leave  it  wilh  him!— Yot  nmke  itnotthyAo/x'— 
Forthatstrongheartof  thine — oh!  listen  ye' — 
Must,  in  its  depths,  o'ercorne  the  very  wish 
For  death  or  torture  to  the  guilty  one, 
Ere  it  can  sleep  again. 

Enonio.  My  father  speaks 

Of  chanere,  for  man  too  mighty. 

I Ir t-i- in    nn.  I  but  speak 

Of  that  wLich  hath  been,  and  again  must  be, 
If  thou  wouldst  join  thy  brother,  in  the  life 
<  >f  the  bright  country,  where,  I  well  believe, 
His  soul  rejoices.    /Tchad  known  such  change, 
Ho  died  in  prace.    He,  whom  his  tribe  once  named 
The  Avenging  Eagle,  took  to  his  meek  heart, 
In  its  last  pangs,  the  spirit  of  those  words 
Which,  from  the  Saviour's  cross,  went  up  to 

heaven — 

"Forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they  do, 
Father,  forgive!"—  u,u  o'er  the  eternal  bounds 
Of  that  celestial  kingdom,  undeflled, 
Where  evil  may  not  enter,  he,  I  deem, 
Hithtoiiis  Master  pass'd  — Ho  waits  thee  there — 
For  love,  we  trust,  springs  heavenward  from 

the  grave, 

Immortal  in  its  holiness  — He  calls 
His  brother  to  the  land  of  golden  light 
And  ever-living  fountains — couldst  th<->u  hear 
11  is  vo'ceo't-r  thosebrightwnters.it  would  say, 
••  My  brother!  oh!  be  pure  be  merciful! 
Th  it  we  may  meet  again." 

Enonift.  (henitatiiirj  )  Can  I  return 

Unro  my  tribe,  and  unavenged  * 

Herrmann.  To  him, 

To  him  return,  from  whom  thine  erring  st^ps 
Have  wander'd farandlong! — Return,  my  son, 
To  thy  E  -deemer! — died  he  not  in  love — 
The  sinless,  the  divine,  The  Son  of  Go-*— 
Breathing  forgiveness  'midst  all  ajronies, 
And  we,  dare  tc«be  ruthless? — By  his  aid 
Shalt  thou  be  guided  to  thy  brother's  place 
'  Midst  the  pu  re  spirits.— Oh !  retrace  the  way 
Back  to  thy  Saviour!  he  rejects  no  heart 
E'en  with  the  dark  stains  on  it,  if  true  tears 
Be  o'er  them  phower'd.— Ay,  weep,  thou  In- 
dian chief  ! 

For  by  the  kindling  moonlight,  I  behold 
Thy  p.o'id  li;is  work-ins'— weep,  relievo  thy  BOH!, 
Tia-s  will  not  stvirne  thy  manhood,  in  the  hour 
Of  i^s  great  conflict. 

Enonio, (giving  up  hix  weaponxto  ITerrmann.) 

Father,  take  the  bow, 

Keep  the  sharp  arrows  till  the  hunters  call 
Foi  th  to  t:'e  cha'9  once  mor;. — Aid  1  .f  me  dwell 
A  little  while,  my  father!  by  thy  Bide, 
Th  it  I  may  hear  the  blessed  words  again— 
Like  water  brooks  amidst  the  summer  hills — 
From  thy  true  lips  flow  forth;  for  li  my  heart 
T,he  music  and  the  memory  of  their  sound 
Too  long  have  died  away. 

Herrmann.  O,  welcome  back, 

Frie.irt,  rescued  one!— Yes,  thouslialt  bo  mygucst, 
And  we  will  pray  beneath  my  sycamore 
Together,  morn  and  eve  ;  and  I  will  rpread 


UEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


<S07 


Thy  much  beside  my  fire,  and  sleep  at  last — 
After  the  visiting  of  holy  thoughts — 
With  dewy  wing  shall  sink  upon  thine  eyes — 
Enter  my  home,  and  welcome,  welcome  back 
J'o  peace,  to  God,  thou  lost  and  found  again  I 

(Tkey  go  into  the  cabin  together—  HERMANN, 

lingering  for  a  rn.omr.nt  on  tke  threshold, 

looks  up  to  the  starry  skies. 
Father  I  that  from  amidst  yon  glorious  worlds 
Now  look's!  on  us,  thy  children  t  make  this  hour 
Blessed  for  ever  I    May  it  see  the  birth 
Of  thine  own  intake  in  Ui>j  unfathom'd  deep 
Of  an  immortal  soul ;— a  thing  to  name 
With  reverential  thought,  a  solemn  world! 
To  Thee  more  precious  than  thobe  thousand  stars 
Burning  on  high  in  thy  majestic  Heaven  I 


THE  DAY  OF  FLOWERS. 
MOTHER'S  WALK  WITH  HER  CHILD. 


PRAYER  AT  SEA  AFTER  VICTORY. 

The  land  thai!  never  rue 
So  England  to  berwlf  da  prove  but  true, 

Shaktpean. 

THROUBH  evening's  bright  repose 
A  voice  of  prayer  arose, 

When  the  sea-fight  was  done: 
The  sons  of  England  knelt, 
With  hearts  that  now  could  melt 
For  on  the  wave  her  battle  had  been  won. 

Round  their  tall  ship,  the  main 
Heaved  with  a  dark  red  stain. 

Caught  not  from  sunset's  cloud: 
While  with  the  tide  swept  past 
Pennon  and  shiver'd  mast. 
Which  to  the  Ocean-Queen  that  day  had  bow'd. 

But  frre  and  fair  on  high, 
A  native  of  th<?  sky, 

Her  streamer  met  the  breete; 
It  flow'd  o'er  fearless  men, 
Though  hush'd  and  child-like  then, 
Before  their  God  they  gather'd  on  the  sea* 

Oh!  did  not  thoughts  of  home 
O'er  each  bold  spirit  come 

As  from  the  land,  sweet  gales? 
In  every  word  of  prayer 
H  M  n  not  some  hearth  a  share, 
Some  bower,  inviolate  'midst  England's  Tales? 

Yes !  bright  green  spots  that  lay 
In  beauty  far  away. 

Hearing  no  billows  roar; 
Safer  from  touch  of  spoil, 
For  that  day's  fiery  toil, 
Boee  on  high  heartsthat  now  with  love  gush'd  o'or. 

A  solemn  scene,  and  dread  1 
The  victors  and  the  dead, 

Tha  breathless  burning  sky! 
And,  p.issin<  with  the  race 
Of  waves,  that  keep  no  trace. 
The  wild,  brief  signs  of  human  victory! 

A  stern,  yet  holy  ^cene  I 
Billows  where  strife  hath  been, 

Sinking  to  awful  sleep: 
Ami  words  that  breathe  the  sense 
Of  God's  omnipotence, 
Making  a  minster  of  that  silent  deep. 

Borne  through  such  hours  afar, 
Thy  flag  hath  been  a  star, 

Where  eagle's  wing  ne'er  flew:— 
England  1  the  unprofaned. 
Those  of  the  hearths  unstain'd, 
•  I  to  Ute  banner  and  the  uhrine  be   rue  I 


Oneipiiit— Hb 

Who  wore  th«  pUtted  thorn  will.  bleedinf  trowm, 
Rules  universal  nature. — Not  a  flower 
Bat  thowt  tone  touch,  in  freckle,  freak,  or  italn, 
Of  hi.  unrirall'd  pencil.    He  impirat 
Their  balmy  odoun,and  imparti  their  HUM, 
And  bathes  their  eyw  with  nectar, — 
Happy  who  walks  with  him. 

Cowper. 

•         COME  to  the  woods,  my  boy ! 
Come  to  the  streams  and  bowery  dingles  forth, 
My  happy  child !    The  spirit  of  bright  hours 
Wooes  us  in  every  wind;  fresh  wild-leaf  scentt 
From  thickets  where  the  lonely  stock-dove  brood*. 
Enter  our  lattice ;  fitful  songs  of  joy 
Float  in  with  each  soft  current  of  the  air; 
And  we  will  hear  their  summons;  we  will  give 
One    day    to    flowers,    and   sunshine,   and   glad 

thoughts, 

And  thou  shall  revel  'midst  free  nature's  wealth. 
And,  for  thy  mother,  twine  wild  wreaths;  while 

she 

From  thy  delight,  wins  to  her  own  fond  heart 
The  vernal  ecstasy  of  childhood  back  :— 
Come  to  the  woods,  my  boy ! 
What :  wouldst  thou  lead  already  to  the  path 
Along  the  copsewood  brook  ?  Come,  then  !  in  truth 
Meet  playmate  for  a  child,  a  blessed  child, 
Is  a  glad  singing  stream,  heard,  or  unheard. 
Singing  its  melody  of  happiness 
Amidst  the  reeds,  and  bounding  in  free  grace    j 
To  that  sweet  chime.— With  what  a  sparkling  life 
It  fills  the  shadowy  dingle!  now  the  wing 
Of  some  low-skimming  swallow  shakes  bright 

spray 

Forth  to  the  sunshine  from  its  dimpled  wave; 
Now.  from  some  pool  of  crystal  darkness  deep, 
Ti)c  trout  springs  upward,  with  a  showery  gleam 
And  plashing  sound  of  waters.    What  swift  ringf 
Of  mazy  insects  o'er  the  shallow  tide 
Seem,  as  they  glance,  to  scatter  sparks  of  light 
From  burnish'd  films!    And  mark  yon  b.  I  very  lino 
Of  gossamer,  so  tremulously  hung 
Across  the  narrow  current,  from  the  tuft 
Of  hazels  to  the  hoary  poplar's  bough ! 
See,  in  the  air's  transparence,  how  it  waves, 
Quivering  and  glistening  with  each  faintest  gale, 
Yet  breaking  not — a  bridge  for  fairy  shape*, 
I  How  delicate,  how  wondrous  1 

Yes,  my  boy ! 
I  Well  may  we  make  the  stream's  bright  winding 

vein 

Cur  woodland  guide,  for  He  who  made  the  stream 
I  Mbdt  it  a  clue  to  haunts  of  loveliness, 
I  For  ever  deepening.    O,  forget  him  not, 
Dear  child !  that  airy  gladness  which  thou  feel'rt 
Wafting  thee  after  bird  and  butterfly, 
As  'twere  a  breeze  within  thee   is  not  loss 
Hi*  gift,  his  blessing  on  thy  spring-time  hours. 
Than  this  rich  outward  sunshine,  mantling  alt 
The  leaves,  and  grass,  and  mossy  tinted  stones 
With  summer  glory.    Stay  thy  bounding  step, 
My  merry  wanderer!  let  us  rest  awhile 
By  this  clear  pool,  where,  in  the  shadow  flung 
From  alder  boughs  and  osiers  o'er  its  breast, 
Thp  soft  red  of  the  flowering  willow  herb 
So  vividly  is  pictured.    Seems  it  not 
E'fii  melting  to  a  more  transparent  glow 
In  that  pure  glass?    Oh!  beautiful  are  streams! 
And   through  all  ages,  human  hearts  have  loved 
Their  music,  still  accordant  with  each  mood 
Of  sadness  or  of  joy.    And  love  hath  grown 
Into  vain  worship,  which  hath  left  its  trace 
On  sculptured  urn  and  altar,  gleaming  still 
Beneath  dim  olive  boughs,  by  many  a  fount 
Of  Italy  and  Greece.     But  we  wi'l  take 
Our  lesson  e'en  from  erring  hearts,  which  blew'd 
The  river  Deities  or  fountain  Nymphs, 
For  the  cool  breeze,  and  for  the  freshening  ihade 


108 


HEMANS*  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  the  sweet  water's  tune.    The  One  supreme. 

The  all-sustaining,  ever-present  God, 

Who  dower'd  the  soul  with  immortality, 

Gave  also  these  delights,  to  cheer  on  earth 

Its  fleeting  passage ;  therefore  let  us  greet 

Each  wandering  flower  scent  as  n  boon  from  Him, 

Each    bird-note,  quivering  'midat  light  summer 

leaves. 

And  every  rich  celestial  tint  unnamed. 
Wherewith  transpierced,  the  clouds  of  morn  and 

eve 
Kindle  and  melt  away! 

And  now,  in  love, 

In  grateful  thoughts  rejoicing,  let  us  bend 
Our  footsteps  onward  to  the  dell  of  flowers 
Around  the  ruin'd  mansion.    Thou,  niy  boy, 
Not  yet,  I  deem,  hast  visited  that  lorn 
But  lovely  spot,  whose  loveliness  for  thee 
Will  wear  no  shadow  of  subduing  thought — 
No  colouring  from  the  past.    This  way  our  path 
Winds   through  the  h'azels;— mark  how  brightly 

shoots 

The  dragon-fly  along  the  sunbeam's  line, 
Crossing  the  leafy  gloom.     How  full  of  life, 
The  life  of  song,  and  breezes,  and  free  wings, 
Is  all  the  murmuring  shade!  and  thine,  O  thine' 
Of  all  the  brightest  and  the  happiest  here. 
My  blessed  child !  my  gift  of  God  !  that  mak'st 
My  heart  o'erflow  with  summer! 

Hnst  thou  twined 

Thy  wreath  so  soon  !  yet  will  we  loiter  not. 
Though  here  the  nhie-bell  wave,  and  gorgeously 
Round  the-  brown  twisted  roots  of  yon  scathed  oak 
The   heath-flower  spread   its   purple.     We  must 

leave 

The  copse,  and  through  yon  broken  avenue, 
Shadow'd  by  drooping  walnut  foliage,  reach 
The  ruin's  glade. 

And,  lo!  before  us,  fair, 
Vet  desolate,  amidst  the  golden  day, 
Ft  stands,  that  house  of  silence  I  wedded  now 
To  verdant  nature  by  the  o'ermantling  growth 
Of  leif  and  tendril,  which  fond  woman's  hand* 
Once  loved  to  train.     How  the  rich  wall-flower 

scent 

From  every  niche  and  mossy  cornice  floats, 
Embalming  its  decay  !    The  bee  alone 
Is  'murmuring  from  its  casement,  whence  no  more 
Shall  the  sweet  eyes  of  laughing  children  shine, 
Watching  some  homeward  footstep.  See!  unbound 
From   the  old    fretted    stone-work,   what    thick 

•      wreaths 

Of  jasmine,  borne  by  waste  exuberance  down, 
Trail  through  the  grass  their  gleaming  stars,  and 

load 

The  air  with  mournful  fragrance,  for  it  speaks 
Of  lift;  gone  hence  ;  and  the  faint  southern  breath 
Of  myrtle  leaves  from  yon  forsaken  porch, 
Startlos  the  soul  with  sweetness !    Vet  rich  knots 
Of  garden  flowers,  for  wandering,  and  self-sown 
Through  all  the  sunny  hollow,  spread  around 
A  flush  of  youth  and  joy,  free  nature's  joy, 
Undimm'd  by  human  change.     How  kindly  here, 
With  the  low  thyme  and  daisies  they  have  blent) 
And.  under  arches  of  wild  eglantine. 
Drooping  from  this  tall  elm,  how  strangely  seems 
Tli-  frail  gumcistus  o'er  the  turf  to  snow 
Ics  pearly  flower-leaves  down  ! — Go,  happy  boy! 
Rove  thou  at  will  amidst  these  roving  sweets, 
Whilst  I,  I,  isiile  this  fallen  dial-stone, 
Under  the  tall  moss  rose-tree,  long  unpruned, 
Kent  where  thick  clustering  pansies  weave  around 
i'hejr  many  tinged  mosaic,  'midst  dark  grass, 
Budded  like  jewels. 

He  hath  bounded  on. 

Wild  with  delight! — The  crimson  on  his  cheek 
t-urer  and  richer  e'en  than  that  which  lies 
In  i  his  deep-hearted  rose-cup! — Bright  moss-rose  I 
rtinugh  not  so  lorn,  yet  surely,  gracious  tree! 
Once  thou  wert  cherish'd !  and,  by  human  love, 
Phrough  many  a  summer  duly  visited 
For  thy  bloom-offerings,  which,  o'er  festal  board, 
And  youthful  brow,  and  e'en  the  shaded  couch 
Of  long  secluded  sickness,  may  have  shed 
A  joy,  now  lost. 


Yet  shall  there  still  be  joy, 
Where  God  hath  pour'd    forth    beauty,  and   the 

voice 

Of  human  love  shall  still  I  in  heard  in  praise 
Over  his  glorious  gifts  1— O  Father,  Lord  I 
The  All  Beneficent !  I  bless  thy  name. 
That   thou   hast  mantled   the  green  earth  with 

floweta, 

Linking  our  hearts  to  nature  I  By  the  love 
Of  their  wild  blossoms,  our  young  footsteps  first 
Into  her  deep  recesses  are  beguiled, 
Her  minster  cells ;  dark  glen  and  forest  bower. 
Where,  thrilling  with  its  earliest  sense  of  thee 
Amidst- the  low  religious  whisperings 
And  shivery  leaf-sounds  of  the  solitude. 
The  spirit  wakes  to  worship,  and  is  made 
Thy  living  temple.     By  the  breath  of  flowers, 
Thou  callest  us,  from  city  throngs  and  cares. 
Back    to    the    woods,    the   birds,   the   mountain 

streams, 

That  sing  of  Thee  I  back  to  free  childhood's  heart. 
Fresh  with  the  dews  of  tenderness!— Thou  bidd'st 
The  lilies  of  the  field  with  placid  smile 
Reprove  man's  feverish  strivings,  and  infuse 
Through  his  worn  soul  a  more  unworldly  life, 
With  their  soft  holy  breath.    Thou  hast  not  left 
His  purer  nature,  with  its  fine  desires, 
Uncared  for  in  this  universe  of  thine  ! 
The  glowing  rose  attests  it,  the  beloved 
Of  poet  hearts,  tnuch'd  by  their  fervent  dreams 
With  spiritual  light,  and  made  a  source 
Of  heaven-ascr-nding  thoughts.     E'en  to  faint  age 
Thou  lend'st  the  vernal  bliss : — The  old  man's  eye 
Falls  on  the  kindling  blossoms,  and  his  soul 
Remembers  youth  and  love,  and  hopefully 
Turns  unto  thee,  who  call'st  earth's  buried  germs 
From  dust  to  splendour;  as  the  mortal  seed 
Shall,  at  thy  summons,  from  the  grave  spring  up 
To  put  on  glory,  to  be  girt  with  power. 
And  fill'd  with  immortality.     Receive 
Thanks,  blessings,  love,  for  these,  thy  lavish  boons 
And,  most  of  all,  their  heavenward  influences, 
Thou  that  gav'st  us  flowers! 

Return,  my  boy 

With  all  thy  chaplets  and  bright  bands,  return  ! 
See,  with  how  deep  a  crimson  eve  hath  touch'd 
And  glorified  the  ruin  !  glow-worm  light 
Will  twinkle  on  the  dew-drops,  ere  we  reach 
Our   home   again.     Come,    with  thy   last  sweet 

prayer 

At  thy  bless'd  mother's  knee,  to-night  shall  thanks 
Unto  our  Father  in  his  Heaven  arise. 
For  all  the  gladness,  all  the  beauty  shed 
O'er  one  rich  day  of  flowers  I 


EVENING  SONG  OF  THE  WEARY. 


FATHER  of  Heaven  and  Earth! 
I  bless  thee  for  the  night, 
The  soft,  still  night! 
The  holy  pause  of  care  and  mirth. 
Of  sound  and  light! 

Now  far  in  glade  and  dell, 
Flower-cup,  and  bud,  and  bell. 

Have  shut  around  the  sleeping  woodk.rk's  nest- 
The  bee's  long  murmuring  toils  are  done, 
And  I,  the  o'erwearied  one, 
O'erwearied  and  o'erwrought, 

Bless  thee.  O  God,  O  Father  of  the  nppress'd, 
With  my  last  waking  thought, 
In  the  still  night! 

Yes,  ere  I  sink  to  rest, 
By  the  Are's  dying  light, 
Thou  Lord  of  Earth  and  Heaven  t 
I  bless  thee,  who  hast  given 
Unto  life's  fainting  travellers,  the  night. 
The  soft,  still,  holy  night  I 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


309 


HYMN  OF  THE  TRAVELLER'S  HOUSE 
HOLD  ON  HIS  RETURN. 

IN   THE   OLDEN    TIME. 


JOY  1  the  lost  one  is  restored  1 
Sunshine  comes  to  hearth  and  board. 
From  the  far-off  countries  old 
Of  the  diamond  and  red  gold  ; 
From  the  dusky  archer  bands, 
Boamcrs  of  the  fiery  Bands ; 
From  the  desert  winds,  whose  breath 
Smiles  with  sudden  silent  death  : 
He  hath  reach'd  his  home  again, 

Where  we  sing 
In  thy  praise  a  fervent  strain, 

God  our  Kingl 

Mightiest !  unto  Thee  be  turn'd. 
When  the  noon-dny  fiercest  burn'd; 
When  the  fountain  springs  were  far. 
And  the  sounds  of  Arab  war 
Swell'd  upon  the  sultry  blast, 
And  the  sandy  columns  past. 
Unto  Thee  he  cried  !  and  Thou, 
Merciful!  dicUt  hear  his  vow! 
Therefore  unto  Thee  again 

Joy  .shall  sing, 
Many  a  sweet  and  thankful  strain, 

God  our  King* 

Thou  wert  with  him  on  the  main, 
And  the  snowy  mountain-chain. 
And  the  rivers,  dark  and  wide, 
Which  through  Indian  forests  glide, 
Thou  didet  guard  him  from  the  wrath 
Of  the  lion  in  his  path. 
And  the  arrows  on  the  breeze. 
And  the  dropping  poison-trees  : 
Therefore  from  our  household  train 

Oft  shall  spring 
Unto  Thee  a  blessing  strain 

God  our  Kingl 

Thou  to  his  lone  watching  wife 
Hast  brought  back  the  light  of  lifut 
Thou  hast  spared  his  loving  child 
Home  to  greet  him  from  the  wild*. 
Though  the  sons  of  eastern  skiea 
On  his  cheek  have  set  their  dyes. 
Though  long  toils  and  sleepless  care* 
On  his  brow  have  blanch 'd  the  hairs. 
Yet  the  night  ot'  fear  is  flown, 
He  is  living  and  our  own  ! — 
Brethren  !  spread  his  festal  board, 
Hang  his  mantle  and  his  sword 
With  the  armour  on  the  wall 
While  this  long,  long  silent  ball 
Joyfully  doth  hear  again 

Voice  arid  string 
Swell  to  Thee  the  exulting  strain, 

God  our  King  1 


A  PRAYER  OF  AFFECTION. 


BI.KSSINOS,  O  Father,  shower ! 
Father  of  mercies  !  rouud  his  precious  head ! 
On  his  lone  walks  and  on  his  thoughtful  hour, 
A  Md  the  pure  visions  of  his  midnight  bed, 

Blessings  be  shedt 

Father !  I  pray  Tuee  not 
For  earthly  treasure  to  that  most  beloved. 
Fame,  fortune,  power ; — oh    be  his  spirit  proved 
By  these,  or  by  their  absence,  at  Thy  will  1 
But  let  Thy  peace  be  wedded  to  his  lot, 
Guarding  his  inner  life  from  touch  of  ill, 

With  its  dove-pinion  still ! 

Let  such  a  sense  of  Thee, 
Thy  watching  presence,  thy  sustaining  love, 
His  bosom  guest  inalienably  he, 

Thai  wiieresoe'er  he  move. 


A  heavenly  light  serene 

Upon  his  heart  and  mien 
May  sit  undimm'd  !  a  gladness  rest  his  own, 
Unspeakable,  and  to  the  world  unknown  ! 
Such  as  from  childhood's  morning  land  of  dreanrv, 

Kemember'd  faintly,  gleams, 
Faintly  remember  d,  and  too  swiftly  flown  I 

So  let  him  walk  with  Thee, 

Made  by  Thy  spirit  free  ; 

And  when  Thou  call'st  him  from  his  ini/tal  place, 
To  his  last  hour  be  still  that  sweetness  given, 
That  joyful  trust!  and  brightly  let  him  part, 
With  lamp  clear  burning,  and  unlingering  heart, 

Mature  to  meet  in  heaven 

His  Saviour's  facel 


THE  PAINTER'S  LAST  WORK.* 


Clasp  me  a  little  longer  on  the  brink 
Of  life,  while  I  can  feel  thy  dear  caress ; 
And  when  thii  heart  hath  ceased  to  beat,  oh !  think, 
And  let  it  mitigate  thy  woe's  excen, 
Thalthou  hast  been  to  me  all  tenderness, 
And  friend  to  more  than  human  friendship  just- 
On  !  by  that  retrospect  of  happiness, 
And  by  the  hope  of  an  immortal  trust, 
God  shall  assuage  thy  pangs  when  1  am  laid  in  dust ! 

CamfMI 

The  scene   is  in  an  English  cottage.     Tke   lattice 
opens  upon  a  landscape  at  sunset. 

EUGENE — TERESA. 
Teresa.    The  fever's  hue  hath  left  thy  cheek,  be 

loved ! 

Thine  eyes,  that  make  the  day-spring  in  my  heart, 
Are  clear  and  still  once  more!— Wilt  thou  look 

forth  ? 

Now,  while  the  sunset  with  low  streaming  light— 
The  light  thou  Invest — hath  made  the  elm-wood 

steins 

All  burning  bronze,  the  river  molten  gold! 
Wilt  thou  be  raised  upon  thy  couch,  to  meet 
The   rich   air  till'd   with   wandering  scents  and 

sounds  ? 

Or  shall  I  lay  thy  dear,  dear  head  once  more 
On  this  true  bosom,  lulling  thoe  to  rest 
With  our  own  evening  hymn  ? 

Eugene.  Not  now,  dear  love, 

My  soul  is  wakeful — lingering  to  look  forth, 
Not  on  (he  sun,  but  thee! — Doth  the  light  sleep 
On  the  stream  tenderly  ?  and  are  the  stems 
Of  our  own  elm  trees,  ny  its  alchemy, 
So  richly  changed  ?  and  is  the  sweet-brier  scent 
Floating  around? — But  I  have 'said  farewell. 
Farewell  to  earth,  Teresa !— not  to  thee 
Nor  yet  to  our  deep  love,  nor  yet  awhile 
Unto  the  spirit  of  mine  art.  which  flows 
Back  on  my  soul  in  mastery. — One  last  WOIK! 
And  I  will  shrine  my  wealth  of  glowing  thoughts 
Clinging  affections,  and  undying  hopes, 
All,  all  in  that  memorial! 

Teresa.  O,  what  dream 

Is  this,  mine  own  Eugene  ? — Waste  thou  not  ihu* 
Thy  scarce    returning    strength;    keep   thy   rici 

thoughts 

For  happier  days  !  they  will  not  melt  away 
Like  passing  music  from  the  lute — dear  friend  ! 
Dearest  of  friendsl  thou  canst  win  back  at  will 
The  glorious  visions. 

Kuftne.  Yes!  the  unseen  land 

Of  glorious  visions  hath  sent  forth  a  voice 
To  call  me  hence. — Oh  !  be  thou  not  deceived  ! 
Bind  to  thy  heart  no  earthly  hope.  Teresa ! 
I  must,  mnst  leave  thee! — Yet  be  strong,  my  love 
As  thou  hast  still  been  gentle. 

Teresa.  O  Eugene! 

What  will  this  dim  world  be  to  me,  Eugene, 
'Vhen  wanting  thy  bright  soul,  the  life  of  all  * 

»  Sumstrd  by  the  closing  scene  in  the  life  nf  the  painter  Blake, 
•  hicbis  beautifully  related  by  Allan  Cunningham. 


310 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


My  only  sunshine !— How  can  I  bear  on  ? 
How  can  we  part  ?    We  that  have  loved  so  well, 
With  clasping  spirits  link'd  so  long  by  grief, 
By  tears,  by  prayer  ? 

Eugent.  E'en  therefore  we  can  part. 

With  an  immortal  trust,  that  such  high  love 
la  not  of  things  to  perish. 

Let  me  leave 

One  record  still  of  its  ethereal  flame 
Brightening  through  death's  cold  shadow.    Once 

again. 

Stand  with  thy  meek  hands  folded  on  thy  breast, 
And  eyes  half  veil'd.  in  thine  own  soul  absorb'd 
As  in  thy  watchings,  e'er  I  sink  to  sleep; 
And  I  will  give  the  bending  flower-like  grace 
Of  that  soft  form,  and  the  still  sweetness  throned 
On  that  pale  brow,  and  in  that  quivering  smile 
Of  voiceless  love,  a  life  that  shall  outlast 
Their  delicate  earthly  being.    There!  thy  head 
Bow'd  down  with  beauty,  and  with  tenderness. 
And  lowly  thought—even  thus— my  own  Tprega! 
Oh !  the  quick  glancing  radiance  anil  bright  Mooiu 
That  once  around  thee  hung,  have  melted  now 
Into  more  solemn  light— but  holier  far. 
And  dearer,  and  yet  lovelier  in  mine  eyes, 
Than  all  that  summer  flush !    For  by  my  couch. 
In  patient  and  serene  devotedness, 
Thou  hast  made  those  rich  hues  and  sunny  smiles 
Thine  offering  unto  me.    Oh  !   I  may  give 
Those  pensive  lips,  that  clear  Madonna  brow, 
And  the  sweet  earnestness  of  that  dark  eye, 
Unto  the  canvas;— I  may  catch  the  flow 
Of  all  those  drooping  locks,  and  glorify 
With  a  soft  halo  what  is  imaged  thus— 
But  how  much  rests  un  breathed !  my  faithful  one 
What  thou  hast  been  to  me !   This  bitter  world. 
This  cold  unanswering  world,  that  hath  no  voice 
To  greet  the  gentle  spirit,  that  drives  back 
All  birds  of  Eden,  which  would  sojourn  here 
A  little  while— how  have  I  turn'd  away 
From  its  keen  soulless  air,  and  in  thy  heart, 
Found  ever  the  sweet  fountain  of  response, 
To  quench  my  thirst  for  home ! 

The  dear  work  grows 
Beneath  my  hand, — the  last!  . 

Teresa,  (falling  on  his  neck  in  tears.) 

Eugene,  Eugene  I 

Break  not  my  heart  with  thine  excess  of  love! — 
Oh !  must  I  lose  thee — thou  that  hast  been  still 
The  tenderest — best — 

Eugene.  Weep,  weep  not  thus,  beloved! 

Let  my  true  heart  o'er  thine  retain  its  power 
Of  soothing  to  the  last! — Mine  own  Teresa! 
Take  strength  from  strong  affection  I— Let  our 

souls. 

Ere  this  brief  parting,  mingle  in  one  strain 
Of  deep,  full  thanksgiving,  for  God's  rich  boon  — 
Our  perfect  love! — Oh!  blessed  have  we  been 
In  that  high  gift!   Thousands  o'er  earth  may  pass 
With  hearts  unfreshen'd  by  the  heavenly  dew. 
Which  hath  kept  ours  from  withering. — Kneel,  true 

wife! 
And  lay  thy  hands  in  mine. — 

[Slit  kneels  beside  the  couch ;  he  prays. 

O.  thus  receive 

Thy  children's  thanks,  Creator!  for  the  love 
Which  thou  hast  granted,  through  all  earthly  woes. 
To  spread  heaven's  peace  around  them ;  which 

hath  bound 

Their  spirits  to  each  other  and  to  thee, 
With    links    whereon    unkindness    ne'er    hath 

breathed, 
Nor  wandering  thought.   We  thank  thee,  gracious 

God! 

For  all  its  treasured  memories!  tender  cares, 
Fond  words,  bright,  bright  sustaining  looks  un- 
changed 

Through  tears  and  joy.    O  Father !  most  of  all 
We  thank,  we  bless  Thee,  for  the  priceless  trust. 
Through  Thy  redeeming  Son  vouchsafed,  to  those 
That  love  in  Thee,  of  union,  in  Thy  sight. 
And  in  Thy  heavens,  immortal! — Hear  our  prayer! 
Take  home  our  fond  affections,  purified 
To  spirit-radiance  from  all  earthly  stain  ; 
Exalted,  solemnized,  made  fit  to  dwell, 


Father!  where  all  things  tr-at  are  lovely  meet 
And  all  things  that  are  pure — for  evermore. 
With  Thee  and  Thine ! 


MOTHER'S  LITANY  BY  THE  SICK -BE 
OF  A  CHILD. 


S\VIOUR  that  of  woman  born, 
Mother-sorrow  didst  not  scorn, 
Thou,  with  whose  last  anguish  strove 
One  dear  thought  of  earthly  love; 

Hear  and  aid! 

Low  he  lies,  my  precious  child, 
With  his  spirit  wandering  wild 
From  its  gladsome  tasks  and  play. 
And  its  bright  thoughts  far  away  :— 
Saviour,  aid! 

Pain  sits  heavy  on  his  brow, 
E'en  though  slumber  seal  it  now; 
Round  his  lip  is  quivering  strife, 
In  his  hand  unquiet  life ; 

Aid,  oh!  aid 

Saviour!  loose  the  burning  chain 
From  his  feve.r'd  heart  and  bra:n, 
Give,  oh!  give  his  young  soul  back 
Into  its  own  cloudless  track  ! 

Hear  and  aid! 

Thou  that  said'st,  "awake,  arise  T' 
E'en  when  death  ha1  quench'd  the  eyes. 
In  this  hour  of  griefs  deep  sighing, 
When  overwearied  hope  is  dying  I 

Hear  and  aid! 

Yet,  oh!  make  him  thine,  all  thine, 
Saviour  I  whether  Death's  or  mine 
Yet,  oh!  pour  on  human  love. 
Strength,  trust,  patience,  from  above! 
Hear  and  aid! 


NIGHT  HYMN  AT  SEA. 

TUB  WORDS  WRITTEN  FOR  A  MELODY  BY  FELTOK 


NIGHT  sinks  on  the  wave. 

Hollow  gusts  are  sighing, 
Sea-birds  to  tbeir  cave 

Through  the  gloom  are  flying. 
Oh!  should  storms  come  sweeping, 
Thou,  in  Heaven  unsleeping, 
O'er  thy  children  vigil  keeping. 
Hear,  hear,  and  save ! 

Stars  look  o'er  the  sea.. 

Few,  and  sad,  and  shrouded! 
Faith  our  light  must  be, 

When  all  else  is  clouded. 
Thou,  whose  voice  came  thrilling. 
Wind  and  billow  stilling. 
Speak  once  more!  our  prayer  fulfilling- 
Power  dwells  with  Thee  I 


FEMALE  CHARACTERS  OF  SCRIPTURE, 

A   SERIES  OF   SONNETS. 


Your  teats  are  desolate  ;  your  stalely  steps, 
Of  all  their  choral  dances,  have  not  left 
One  trace  beside  the  fountains ;  your  full  cup 
Of  gladness  and  of  trembling,  each  alike 
Is  broken  :  ret,  amidst  undying  thing*, 
The  mind  still  keep*  your  loveliness,  and  still 
All  the  fresh  glories  of  the  early  world 
Hang  round  you  in  the  spirit's  pictured  balk, 
Never  to  cfaang* ! 


INVOCATION. 

As  the  tired  voyager  on  stormy  seas 

Invokes  the  coming  of  bright  birds  from  sbora, 
To  waft  him  tidings  with  the  gentler  breeze. 

Of  dim  sweet  woods  that  hear  no  billow*'  roar 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


311 


So  from  the  depth  of  days,  when  earth  yet  wow 
Her  solemn  beauty  and  primeval  dew, 

I  call  you,  L'racious  Forms  !    Oh!  come,  restore 
Awhile  that  holy  freshness,  and  renew 
Life's  morning  dreams.    Come  with  flie  voice,  the 
lyre, 

Daughters  of  Jndah!  with  the  timbrel  rise! 

Ye  of  the  dark  prophetic  eastern  eyes, 
Imperial  in  their  visionary  tire; 
Oh  !  steep  my  soul  in  that  old  glorious  time, 
When  God's  own  whisper  shook  the  cedars  of  your 


II. 

INVOCATION   CONTINUED. 

And  corne,  ye  faithful  !  round  Messiah  seen, 
With  a  soft  harmony  of  tears  and  light 

Streaming  through  all  your  spiritual  mien, 
As  in  calm  clouds  of  pearly  stillness  bright, 
Showars  weave  with  sunshine,  and  transpierce 
tneir  slight 

Ethereal  cradle.—  From  ynnr  heart  subdued 
AL1  haiij-hty  drearis  of  power  had  wing'd  their 
flight, 

And  left  high  place  for  martyr  fortitude, 

True  faith,  long  suffering  love.—  Come  to  me,  come! 
And,  as  the  seas  beneath  your  master's  tread 
Fell  into  crystal  smoothness,  round  him  spread 

Like  the  clear  pavement  of  his  heavenly  home  ; 
So  in  your  presence,  let  the  soul's  f  real  deep 
Sink  to  the  gentleness  of  infant  sleep. 

III. 

THE   SONG   OF   MIRIAM. 

A  song  for  Israel's  God  !—  Spear,  crest,  and  helm, 

Lay  hy  the  billows  of  the  old  Red  Sea, 
When  Miriam's  voice  o'er  that  sepulchral  realm 

Sent  on  the  blast  a  hymn  of  jubilee; 
With  her  lit  eye,  and  long  hair  floating  free, 

Queen-like  she  stood,  and  glorious  was  the  strain, 
E'en  as  instinct  with  the  tempestuous  glee 

Of  the  dark  waters,  tossing  o'er  (he  slain. 
A  song  for  God's  own  victory  !-  O,  thy  lays, 

Bright  Poesy!  were  holy  in  their  birth:  — 
How  ha'h  it  died,  thy  seraph  note  of  praise, 

In  the  bewildering  melodies)  of  earth! 
Return  from  troubling  bitter  founts—  return, 
Back  to  the  life-springs  of  thy  native  urn  I 

IV. 

RUTH. 

The  plume-like  swaying  of  the  auburn  corn, 
By  soft  winds  to  a  dreamy  motion  fann'd, 

Still  brings  me  back  thine  image  —  Oh!  forlorn, 
Vet  not  forsaken,  Ruth!  —  I  see  Ihee  stand 
Lone,  'midst  the  gladness  of  the  harvest  band  — 

Lone  as  u  wood-bird  on  the  ocean's  foam, 
Fall'n  in  its  weariness.    Thy  father-land 

Smiles  far  away  !  yet  to  the  sense  of  home, 
That  finest,  purest,  which  can  recognize 
Home  in  affection's  glance,  for  ever  true 

Beats  thy  calm  heart;  and  if  thy  gentle  eyes 
Gleam  tremulous  through  tears,  'tis  not  to  rue 

Those  words,  immortal  in  their  deep  Love's  tone, 

"Thy  people  and  thy  Ood  shall  be  mine  men  I" 

V. 

THE   VIGIL  OF   RIZPAII. 

"And  Rizpah,  the  daughter  of  Aiah,  took  sackcloth, 
And  spread  it  for  her  upon  the  rock,  from  the  beginning 
of  harvest  until  water  dropped  upon  them  out  of  hea 
ven  ;  and  suffered  neither  the  birds  of  the  air  to  rest  on 
them  by  day,  nor  the  beasts  of  the  field  by  night."  —  2 
5am.  xzi.  10. 

Who  watches  on  the  mountain  with  the  dead, 
AlonS  before  the  awfulness  of  night  ^  — 
A  seer  awaiting  the  deep  spirit's  might  ? 

A  warrior  guarding  some  dark  pass  of  dread  ? 

No,  a  lorn  woman  !—  On  her  drooping  head, 
Once  proudly  graceful,  heavy  beats  the  rain  , 
She  recks  not  —  living  for  the  nnburied  slain, 

Only  to  sea.  •  the  vulture  from  their  bed. 


So.  night  by  night,  her  vigil  hath  she  kept 

With   the   pale   sTurs,  and    with   the   dews   hatb 

wept ; — 

Oh!  suiely  some  bright  Presence  from  above 
On  those  wild  rocks  the  lonely  one  must  aid! — 
E'en  so;  a  streiigthener  through  all  storm  and 

shade, 
Til'  unconquerable  Angel,  mightiest  Love' 

VI 

THE   REPLY   OF  THE   EHUNAMITE    WOMAN. 

"And  she  answered,  I  dwell  among  mine  own  people." 

—2  Kings,  iv.  13. 

14 1  dwell  among  mine  own,"— Oh  !  happy  thou  I 

Not  for  the  sunny  clusters  of  the  vine, 
Nor  for  the  olives  on  the  mountain's  brow; 
Nor  the  flocks  wandering  by  the  flowery  line 
Of  streams,   that  make   the  green  land  where 

they  shine 

Laugh  to  the  light  of  waters— not  for  these, 
Nor  the  soft  shadow  of  ancestral  trees. 

Whose  kindly  whisper  floats  o'er  thee  and  thine— 
Oh!  not  for  these  I  call  thee  richly  blest, 
But  for  the  meekness  of  thy  woman's  breast. 

Where  that  sweet  depth  of  still  contentment 

lies; 

And  for  thy  holy  household  love,  which  clings 
Unto  all  ancient  and  familiar  things. 
Weaving  from  each  some  link  for   home's  dear 
charities. 

VII. 

THE   ANNUNCIATION. 

Lowliest  of  women,  and  most  glorified! 

In  thy  still  beauty  sitting  calm  and  lone, 
A  brightness  round  thee  grew— and  by  thy  side 

Kindling  the  air,  a  form  ethereal  shone. 

Solemn,    yet    breathing    gladness. — From    her 

throne 

A  queen  had  risen  with  more  imperial  eye, 
A  stately  prophetess  of  victory 

From  her  proud  lyre  had  struck  a  tempest's  tone, 
For  such  high  tidings  as  to  thee  were  brought, 

Chosen  of  Heaven!    that   hour:— but   thou,  O 

thou  I 
E'en  as  a  flower  with  gracious  rains  o'erfraught, 

Thy  virgin  head  beneath  its  crown  didst  bow. 
And  take  to  thy  meek  breast  th'  all  holy  word. 
And  own  thyself  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord. 

VIII. 

THE   SONO    OF  THE   VIRGIN. 

Yet  as  a  sun-burst  flushing  mountain  snow. 

Fell  the  celestial  touch  of  fire  ere  long 
On  the  pale  stillness  of  thy  thoughtful  brow, 

And  thy  calm  spirit  lighten'd  into  song. 

Unconsciously  perchance,  yet  free  and  strong 
Flow'd  the  majestic  joy  of  tuneful  words. 

Which  living  harps  the  quires  of  Heaven  among 
Might  well  have  link'd  with  their  divinest  chordi. 
Full  many  a  strain,  borne  far  on  glory's  blast. 
Shall  leave,  where  once  its  haughty  music  pass'd. 

No  more  to  memory  than  -a  reed's  faint  sigh ; 
While  thine,  O  childlike  virgin  !  through  all  time 
Shall  send  its  fervent  breath  o'er  every  clime, 

Being  of  God,  and  therefore  not  to  die. 

IX. 

THE   PENITENT   ANOINTING   CHRIST'S   FKET. 

There  was  a  mournfulness  in  angel  eyes. 

That  saw  thee,  woman!  bright  in  this  world'* 

train. 
Moving  to  pleasure's  airy  melodies, 

Thyself  the  idol  of  the  enchanted  strain. 

But  from  thy  beauty's  garland,  brief  and  vain, 
When  one  by  one  the  rose-leaves  had  been  torn. 

When  thy  heart's  core  had  quiver'd  to  the  pain 
Through  every  lite-nerve  sent  by  arrowy  scorn  ; 
When  thou  di'dst  kneel  to  pour  sweet  odours  fortll 

On  the  Redeemer's  feet,  with  many  a  sigh, 
And  showering  tear-drop,  of  yet  richer  worth 

Than  all  those  costly  balms  of  Araby  ; 
Then  was  there  joy.  a  song  of  jov  in  Heaven 
For  thee,  the  child  won  bach,  the  penitent  for 
given! 


212 


HKMANS'  TOETICAL  WORKS. 


MARY    AT   THE    FEET   OF   CHRIE1 . 

Oil !  blest  beyond  all  daughters  of  the  earth  I 

What  were  the  Orient's  thrones  to  that  low  seat 
Where  thy  huslf <!  spirit  drew  celestial  birth  ? 

Mary!  meek  listener  at  the  Saviour's  feet! 

No  feverish  cares  to  that  divine  retreat 
Thy  woman's  heart  of  silent  worship  brought. 

But  a  fresh  childhood,  heavenly  truth  to  meet, 
riVith  love,  and  wonder,  and  submissive  thought. 
Oh  !  for  the  holy  quiet  of  thy  breast, 

'Midst  the   world's   eager  tones  and   footsteps 
flying ! 

Thou,  whose  calm  soul  was  like  a  well-spring, 

lying 

Bo  deep  and  still  iu  its  transparent  rest, 
That  e'en  when  noontide  burns  upon  the  hills. 
Bonie  one  bright  solemn  star  all  its  lone  mirror 
fills. 

XI. 

THE   SISTERS   OF   BETHANY    AFTER    THE    DEATH    Of 
LAZARUS. 

One  grief,  one  faith,  O  sisters  of  the  dead  ! 

Was  in  your  bosoms — thou,  whose  steps,  made 

fleet 
By  keen  hope  fluttering  in  the  heart  which  bled, 

Bore  then,  as  wings,  the  Lord  of  Life  to  greet; 

And  thou,  that  duteous  in  thy  still  retreat 
Didst  wait  his  summons — then  with  reverent  love 

Fall  weeping  at  the  blest  Deliverer's  feet, 
Whiun  e'en  to  heavenly  tears  thy  woe  could  move, 
And  which  to  Him.  the  All  Seeing  and  All  Just 
Was  loveliest,  that  quick  zeal,  or  lowly  trust? 
Oh  !  question  not,  and  let  no  law  be  given 

To  those  tinveilings  of  its  deepest  shrine, 

By  the  wrong  spirit  made  in  outward  sign  : 
Free  service  from  the  heart  is  all  in  all  to  Heaven 


XIV. 


XII. 

THE   MEMORIAL   OF   MART. 

"  Verily  I  say  unto  you,  wheresoever  this  gospel  shall 
be  preached  in  the  whole  world,  there  shall  also  this,  that 
this  woman  hath  done,  be  told  for  a  memorial  of  her."— 
MattAcie,  xxvi.  13. — See  also  John,  xii.  3. 

Thou  hast  thy  record  in  the  monarch's  hall, 
And  on  the  waters  of  the  far  mid  sea ; 

And  where  the  miehty  mountain-shadows  fall, 
The  Alpine  hamlet  keeps  a  thought  of  thee : 
Where'er  beneath  some  Oriental  tree. 

The  Christian  traveller  rests — where'er  the  child 
Looks  upward  from  the  English  mother's  knee, 

With  earnest  eyes  in  wondering  reverence  mild. 

There  art  thou  known  —  where'er  the  Book  of 
Light 

Bears  hope  and  healing,  there,  beyond  all  blight, 
Is  borne  thy  memory,  and  all  praise  above  ; 

Oh  '  say  what  deed  so  lifted  thy  sweet  name, 

Mary  !  to  that  pure  silent  place  of  fame  ? 
One  lowly  offering  of  exceeding  love. 

XIII. 

THE   WOMEN  OF  JERUSALEM   AT  THE  CROSS. 

Like  those  pale  stars  of  tempest  hours,  whose 
gleam 

Waves  calm  and  constant  on  the  rocking  mast, 
Such  by  the  Cross  doth  your  bright  lingering  seem, 

Daughters  of  Zion  !  faithful  to  the  last ! 

Ye,  through  the  darkness  o'er  the  wide  earth  cast 
By  the  death-cloud  within  the  Saviour's  eye. 

E'en  till  away  the  heavenly  spirit  pass'd, 
Stood  in  the  shadow  of  his  agony. 
O  blessed  faith;  a  guiding  lamp,  that  hour. 
Was  lit  for  woman's  heart ;  to  her,  whose  dower 

Is  all  at  love  and  suffering  from  her  birth; 
Still  hath  your  act  a  voice— through  fear,  through 
strife, 

Bidding  her  hind  each  tendril  of  her  life, 
To  that  which  her  deep  soul  hath  proved  of  holiest 
v  orth. 


MARY    MAODALEXE   AT  THE   SEPULCHRE. 

Weeper!  to  thee  how  bright  a  morn  was  given 

After  thy  long,  long  vigil  of  (rospair, 
When    that    high   voice  which  burial  rocks  hid 

riven, 

Thrill'd  with  immortal  tones  the  silent  air  I 
Never  did  clarion's  royal  blast  declare 
Such  tale  of  victory  to  a  breathless  crowd. 

As  the  deep  sweetness  of  one  word  could  bear 
Into  thy  heart  of  hearts,  O  woman  !  bow'd 
By  .strong  affection's  anguish  ! — one  low  word — 
"Mary!"  —  and   all   the  triumph  wrung  from 

death 

Was  thus  reveal'd  !  and  thou,  that  so  hadst  err'd. 
So  wept,  and  been  forgiven,  in  trembling  faith 
Didst  cast  thee  down  before  th'  all  conquering 

Son. 

Awed  by  the  mighty  gift  thy  tears  and  love  had 
won  ' 

XV. 

MARY  MAGDALENE  BEARING  TIDINGS  or  THE 

RESURRECTION. 

Then  was  a  task  of  glory  all  thine  own. 

Nobler  than  e'er  the  still  small  voice  assign'd 
To  lips  in  awful  music  making  known 

The  stormy  splendours  of  some  prophet's  mind. 

"  Christ  is  arisen  !"  by  thee,  to  wake  mankind, 
First  from  the  sepulchre  those  words  were  brought! 

Thou  wert  to  send  the  mighty  rushing  wind 
First  on  its  way,  with  those  high  tidings  fraught— 
'  C/irist  is  arisen  /"'—Thou,  than,  the  sin  enthrall'd, 
Earth's  outcast.  Heaven's  own  ransom'd  one,  wert 
callYI 

In  human  hearts  to  cive  that  rapture  birth  : 

Oh  !  raised  from  shame  to  brightness !  —  there 
doth  lie 

The  tenderest  meaning  of  His  ministry, 
Whoso,  undespairing  love  still  ovvn'd  the  spirit's 
worth. 


THE  TWO  MONUMENTS. 


Oh !  blot  an  thej  who  lire  and  die  like  "  him," 
LoTed  with  Mich  love,  and  with  such  sorrow  mourn 'd ! 


BANNERS  hung  drooping  from  on  high 

In  a  dim  cathedral's  nave, 
Making  a  gorgeous  canopy 

O'er  a  noble,  noble  gravel 

And  a  marble  warrior's  form  beneath, 
With  helm  and  crest  array'd, 

As  on  his  battle  bed  of  death, 
Lay  in  their  crimson  shade. 

Triumph  yet  lineer'd  in  his  eye. 
Ere  by  the  dark  night  seal'd. 

And  his  head  was  pillow'd  haughtily 
On  standard  and  on  shield. 

And  shadowing  that  proud  trophy  pile 

With  the  glory  of  his  wing, 
An  eagle  sat; — yet  seem'd  the  while 

Panting  through  Heaven  to  spring 

He  sat  upon  a  shiver'd  lance. 
There  by  the  sculptor  bound; 

But  in  the  light  ef  his  lifted  glance 
Was  that  which  scorn'd  the  ground. 

And  a  burning  flood  of  gem-like  hues 
From  a  storied  window  pour'd, 

There  fell,  there  centred,  to  suffuse 
The  conqueror  and  his  sword. 

A  flood  of  hues ! — but  ont  rich  dye 

O'er  all  supremely  spread, 
With  a  purple  robe  of  royalty 

Mantling  the  mighty  dead. 

Meet  was  that  roll  for  Aim  whose  name 
Was  a  trumpet  note  in  war. 

His  pathway  still  the  march  of  fame, 
His  eye  the  battle  star. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  AVORKS. 


13 


But  faintly,  tenderly  was  thrown 
Frosn  tlie  colour'd  li<;lit  one  ray, 

Where  a  low  and  pale  memorial  stone 
By  the  couch  of  glory  lay. 

Few  were  the  fond  words  chisell'd  there, 

Mourning  for  parted  worth  ; 
But  the  very  heart  of  love  and  prayer 

Had  given  their  sweetness  forth. 

They  spoke  of  one  whose  life  had  been 
As  a  hidden  streamlet's  course. 

Bearing  on  health  and  joy  unseen, 
From  its  clear  mountain  source: 

Whose  ycunp  pure  memory,  lying  deep 
'Midst  ruck,  and  wood,  and  hill, 

Dwelt  in  the  homes  where  poor  men  sleep. 
A  soft  light  meek  and  still  : 

Whose  gentle  voice,  too  early  call'd 

Unto  Music's  land  away. 
Had  won  for  God  the  earth's  enthrall'd 

By  words  of  silvery  sway. 

These  were  Us  victories — yet  enroll'd 

In  no  high  song  of  fame, 
The  pastor  of  the  mountain-fold 

Left  but  to  Heaven  Ins  name. 

To  Heaven  and  to  the  peasant's  hearth, 

A  blessed  household  sound — 
And  finding  lowly  love  on  earth, 

Enough,  enough,  he  found  ! 

Bright  and  more  bright  before  me  gleam'd 

That  sainted  image  still ; 
Till  one  sweet  moonlight  memory  seem'd 

The  regal   fane  to  fill. 

Oh!  how  my  silent  sp.rit  turn'd 
From  those  proud  trophies  nigh  ; 

How  my  full  heart  within  me  burn'd 
Like  Him  to  live  and  die! 


THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEAD. 


FORGET  them  not !  though  now  their  name 

Be  but  a  mournful  sound. 
Though  by  the  hearth  its  utterance  claim 

A  stillness  round: 

Though  for  their  sake  this  earth  no  more 

As  it  hath  been,  may  be. 
And  shadows,  never  mark'd  before, 

Brood  o'er  each  tree: 

And  though  their  image  dim  the  sky, 

Yet,  yet,  forget  them  not! 
Nor,  where  their  love  and  life  went  by, 

Forsake  the  spot  I 

They  have  a  breathing  influence  there, 
A  charm  not  elsewhere  found; 

Bad — yet  it  sanctifies  the  air, 
The  stream,  the  ground. 

Then,  though  the  wind  an  alter'd  tone 
Through  the  young  foliage  bear, 

Though  every  flower,  of  something  gone, 
A  tinge  may  wear: 

Oh,  fly  it  not! — no  fruitless  grief 
Thus  in  their  presence  felt, 

A  record  links  to  every  leaf, 
There,  where  they  dwelt 

Bifll  trace  the  path  which  knew  their  tread, 
Still  tend  their  garden  bower, 

Btill  commune  with  the  holy  dead. 
In  each  lone  hour. 

The  holy  dead !— oh!  blest  we  are., 

That  we  may  call  them  so, 
And  to  their  image  look  afar, 

Tlirough  all  our  woe! 


Blest  that  the  tilings  they  loved  on  earth 

As  relics  we  muy  hold, 
That  wake  sweet  thoughts  of  parted  worth 

By  springs  untold  I 

Blest,  that  a  deep  and  chastening  power 
Thus  o'er  our  souls  is  given, 

If  but  to  bird,  or  song,  or  flower, 
Vet,  all  for  Heaven. 


ANGEL  VISITS. 


No  more  of  talk  where  GoJ  or  ingel  irurar 
With  man,  u  with  his  friend,  fimilin   oed 
To  tit  indulgent,  and  with  him  partakt 
Rural  reput. 


ARE  ye  for  ever  to  your  skies  departed? 

Oh  !  will  ye  visit  this  dim  world  no  more  ? 
Ye,  whose  bright  wings  a  solemn  splendour  darted 

Through  Eden's  fresh  and  flowering  shades  of 

yore? 

Now  are  the  fountains  dried  on  that  sweet  spot, 
And  ye — our  faded  earth  beholds  you  not  1 

Yet,  by  your  shining  ryrs  not  all  forsaken, 
Man  wander'd  from  his  Paradise  away; 

Ye,  from  forgetfnlness  his  heart  to  waken. 
Came  down,  high  guests  I  in  many  a  later  day. 

And  with  the  Patriarchs,  under  vine  or  oak, 

'Midst  noontide  calm  or  hush  of  evening,  spoke. 

From  you,  the  veil  of  midnight-darkness  rending, 
Came  the  rich  mysteries  to  the  Sleeper's  eye, 

That  saw  your  hosts  ascending  and  descending 
On  those  bright  steps  between  the  earth  and  sky; 

Trembling  he  woke,  and  bow'd  o'er  glory's  trace, 

And  worshipp'd,  awe-struck,  in  that  fearful  place 

By  Chebar's*  brook  ye  pass'd,  such  radiance  wear 
ing 

As  mortal  vision  might  but  ill  endure; 
Along  the  stream  the  living  chariot  bearing. 

With  its  high  crystal  arch,  intensely  purel 
And  the  dread  rushing  of  your  wings  that  hour 
Was  like  the  noise  of  waters  in  their  power. 

But  in  the  Olive-mount,  by  night  appearing, 
'Midst  the  dim  leaves,  your  holiest  work  wa§ 

done! 

Whose  was  the  voice  that  came  divinely  cheering 
Fraught  with  the  breath  of  God,  to  aid  his  Bon? — 
Haply  of  those  that,  on  the  moon  lit  plains. 
Wafted  good  tidings  unto  Syrian  swains. 

Yet  one  more   task   was  yours'   your   heavenly 

dwelling 

Ye  left,  and  by  th'  unseal'd  sepulchral  stone, 
In  glorious  raiment,  sat;  the  weepers  telling, 
That  He  they  sought  had  triumph'd,  and  wa« 

gone! 

Now  have  ye  left  us  for  the  brighter  shore. 
Your  presence  lights  the  lonely  groves  no  more. 

But  may  ye  not.  unseen,  around  us  hover. 
With  gentle  promptings  and  sweet  influence  yet, 

Though  the  fresh  glory  of  those  days  be  over, 
When,  'midst  the  palm-trees,  man  yourfootetept 
met? 

Are  ye  not  near  when  faith  and  hope  rise  high, 

When  love,  by  strength,  o'ermasters  agony  ? 

Are  ye  not  near  when  sorrow,  unrepining, 
Yields  up  life's  treasures  unto  Him  who  gave  ? 

When  martyrs,  all  things  for  His  sake  resigning. 
Lead  on  the  inarch  of  death,  serenely  brave  ? 

Dreams !— but  a  deeper  thought  our  souls  may  fill— 

One,  One  is  near — a  Spirit  holier  still  1 


*  Ezekiel,  chip.  z. 


5>U 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A   PENITENT'S  RETURN. 


Can  guilt  or  misery  ever  enter  here  ? 
Ah  1  no,  the  ipirit  of  domestic  peace, 
Though  calm  and  gentle  as  the  brooding  dote 
And  ever  murmuring  forth  »  quiet  K>ng, 
Guards,  powerful  u  the  sword  of  Cherubim, 
The  hallow'd  Porch.    She  hath  a  heavenly  smile. 
That  links  into  the  sullen  «oul  of  nice, 
And  wins  him  o'er  to  virtue. 

Wilton. 


MT  father's  house  once  more, 
In  its  own  moonlight  beauty  I    Yet  around, 
Something  amidst  the  dewy  calm  profound, 

Broods,  never  mark'd  before  1 

Is  it  the  brooding  night, 
Is  it  the  shivery  creeping  on  the  air, 
That  makes  the  home,  so  tranquil  and  so  fait. 

Overwhelming  to  my  sight  7 

All  solemnized  it  seems, 

And  still,  and  darken'd  in  each  time-worn  hue, 
Since  the  rich  clustering  roses  met  my  view, 

As  now,  by  starry  gleams. 

And  this  high  elm.  where  last 
I  stood  and  linger'd— where  my  sisters  made 
Our  mother's  bower — I  deem'd  not  that  it  east 

So  far  and  dark  a  shade  I 

How  spirit-like  a  tone 
Sighs  through  yon  tree  I    My  father  t,  place  wai 

At  evening  hours,  while  soft  winds  waved  his  bair  I 
Now  those  gray  locks  are  gone  1 

My  Foul  grows  faint  with  fear; 
Even  as  if  angel  steps  had  mark'd  the  sod. 
I  tremble  where  I  move— the  voice  of  God, 

Is  in  the  foliage  here  I 

la  it  indeed  the  night 
That   makes   my   home   so  awful  ?     Faithless 

hearted  ! 
'TU  that  from  thine  own  bosom  hath  departed 

The  inborn  gladd'uing  light  I 

No  outward  thing  is  changed ; 
Only  the  joy  of  purity  is  fled. 
And,  long  from  nature's  melodies  estranged, 

Thou  hear'st  their  tones  with  dread 

Therefore,  the  calm  abode, 
By  thy  dark  spirit,  is  o'erhung  with  shade: 
And,  therefore,  in  the  leaves,  the  voice  of  God 

Makes  thy  sick  heart  afraid ! 

The  night-flowers  round  that  door, 
Still  breathe  pure  fragrance  on  the  untainted  air; 
Thou,  thou  alone  art  worthy  now  no  more 

To  pass,  and  rest  thee  there. 

And  must  I  turn  away  ? — 
Hark,  hark  1— it  is  my  mother's  voice  I  hear— 
Sadder  than  once  it  seem'd— yet  soft  and  clear— 

Doth  she  not  seem  to  pray  ? 

My  name !— I  caught  the  sound  I 
Oh  !  blessed  tone  of  love— the  deep,  the  mild- 
Mother,  my  mother !   Now  receive  thy  child. 

Take  back  the  lost  and  found  I 


A  THOUGHT  OF  PARADISE. 

We  recede  but  what  we  (in, 
And  in  oar  life  alone  doei  nalura  live : 


Ourt  n  her  wedding-garment,  onra  her  shroud 
And  would  we  aughj  behold  of  higher  worth 
Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allowM 
To  the  poor,  lovele»,  ever-anxious  crowd ; 
Ah.  from  the  loul  itself  must  issue  forth 
A  light,  *  glory,  a  fair  luminoui  cloud, 

Enveloping  the  earth— 
And  from  the  inul  itself  nmst  there  be  Mot 
A  iweet  and  potent  voice  of  ils  own  birth, 
Of  all  iweet  sounds  the  life  and  element. 

Coltrvtft. 

GREEN  spot  of  holy  ground! 

If  thou  couldst  yet  be  found. 
Far  in  deep  woods,  with  all  thy  starry  flowers; 

If  not  one  sullying  breath 

Of  time,  or  change,  or  death. 
Had  touch'd  the  vernal  glory  of  thy  bowers  • 

Might  our  tired  pilgrim-feet. 

Worn  by  the  desert's  heat. 
On  the  bright  freshness  of  thy  turf  repose? 

Might  our  eyes  wander  there 

Through  heaven's  transparent  air. 
And  rest  on  colours  of  the  immortal  rose  ? 

Say,  would  thy  balmy  skies 

And  fountain-melodies 
Our  heritage  of  lost  delight  restore? 

Could  thy  soft  honey-dews 

Through  all  our  veins  diffuse 
The  early,  child- like,  trustful  sleep  once  more? 

And  might  we,  in  the  shade 

By  thy  tall  cedars  made, 
With  angel  voices  high  communion  hold  7 

Would  their  sweet  solemn  tone 

Give  back  the  music  gone, 
Our  Being's  harmony,  so  jarr'd  of  old? 

Oh!  no — thy  sunny  hours 

Might  come  with  blossom  showers. 
All  thy  young  leaves  to  spirit  lyres  might  thrill ; 

But  toe— should  we  not  bring 

Into  thy  realms  of  spring 
The  shadows  of  our  souls  to  haunt  us  still? 

What  could  thy  flowers  and  airs 

Do  for  our  earth-born  cares  ? 
Would  the  world's  chain  melt  off  and  leave  us  free? 

No!— past  each  living  stream. 

Still  would  some  fever  dream 
Track  the  lorn  wanderers,  meet  no  more  for  thee 

Should  we  not  shrink  with  fear. 

If  angel  steps  were  near. 
Feeling  our  burden'd  souls  within  us  die? 

How  might  our  passions  brook 

The  still  and  searching  look. 
The  star-like  glance  of  seraph  purity? 

Thy  golden-fruited  grove 

Was  not  for  pining  love; 
Vain  sadness  would  hut  dim  thy  crystal  skiea ! 

Oh!  Thou  wert  but  a  part 

Of  what  man's  exiled  heart 
Hath  lost— the  dower  of  inborn  Paradise  I 


LET  US  DEPART. 


It  is  mentioned  by  Josephus,  that,  a  short  time  previ- 
ounly  to  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem  by  the  Roman*, 
the  priests,  going  by  night  into  the  inner  court  of  the 
temple  to  perform  their  sacred  ministration*  at  the  toast 
of  Pentecost,  felt  a  quaking,  and  heard  a  rushing  noiw* 
and.  after  that,  a  sound  as  of  a  great  multitude  laying 
"  Let  us  depart  hence." 

NIGHT  hung  on  Salem's  towers. 
And  a  brooding  hush  profound 

Lay  where  the  Roman  eagje  shone, 
High  o'er  the  tents  around. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


315 


The  tents  that  rose  by  thousands, 
In  the  moonlight  glimmering  pale; 

Like  white  waves  of  a  frozen  sea. 
Filling  an  Alpine  vale. 

And  the  temple's  massy  shadow 

Fell  broad,  and  dark,  and  still, 
In  peace,  as  if  the  Holy  One 

Yet  watch'd  his  chosen  hill. 

But  a  fearful  sound  was  heard 
In  that  old  fane's  deepest  heart, 

As  if  mighty  wings  rush'd  by, 
And  a  dread  voice  raised  the  cry, 
"  Let  u«  depart  1" 

Within  the  fated  city 

E'en  then  fierce  discord  raved, 
Thoueh  o'er  night's  heaven  the  comet  sword 

Its  vengeful  token  waved. 

There  were  shouts  of  kindred  warfare 
Through  the  dark  streets  ringing  high. 

Though  every  sign  was  full  which  told 
Of  the  bloody  vintage  nigh. 

Though  the  wild  red  spears  and  arrows 

Of  many  a  meteor  host, 
Went  flashing  o'er  the  holy  stars, 

In  the  sky  now  seen,  now  lost. 

And  that  fearful  sound  was  heard 

In  the  Temple's  deepest  heart, 
As  if  mighty  wings  rush'd  by, 

And  a  voice  cried  mournfully, 
"  Let  us  depart!" 

But  within  the  fated  city 

There  was  revelry  that  night; 
The  wine-cup  and  the  timbrel  note. 

And  the  blaze  of  banquet  light 

The  footsteps  of  the  dancer 

Went  bounding  through  the  halt, 
And  the  music  of  the  dulcimer 

Sum  1110 ii '(I  to  festival. 

While  the  clash  of  brother  weapons 

Made  lightning  in  the  air. 
And  the  dying  at  the  palace  gates 

Lay  down  in  their  despair. 

And  that  fearful  sound  was  heard 
At  the  Temple's  thrilling  heart. 

As  if  mighty  wings  rush'd  by, 
And  a  dread  voice  raised  the  cry, 
"Let  u»  depart  I" 


ON  A  PICTURE  OF  CHRIST  BEARING 
THE  CROSS. 

PAIMTKD  BY    VELASQUEZ.* 


Br  the  dark  stillness  brooding  in  the  sky. 
Holiest  of  sufferers!  round  thy  path  of  woe, 

And  by  the  weight  of  mortal  agony 
Laid  on  thy  drooping  form  and    pale    meek 
brow, 

My  heart  was  awed :  the  burden  of  thy  pain 

S>ink  on  me  with  a  mystery  and  a  chain. 

I  look'd  once  more,  and,  as  the  virtue  shed 
Forth  from  thy  robe  of  old,  so  fell  a  ray 

Of  victory  from  thy  mien  !  and  round  thy  beau, 
The  halo,  melting  spirit-like  away, 

Seem'd  of  the  very  soul's  bright  rising  t  ~>rn, 

To  glorify  all  sorrow,  shame,  and  scorn. 

And    upwards,    through    transparent    darkness 

gleaming. 
Gazed,  in  mute  reverence,  woman's  earnest  ey«. 


*  This  picture  is  in  (he  poMeatlon  of  Ihe  Viscount  HarberM. 
Merrioo  Square,  Dublin. 


Lit,  as  a  vase  whence  inward  light  is  streaming, 

With'tuenchless  faith,  and  deep  lovu's  fervency  ; 

Gatheiiie,   like    incense    round  some   dim  veil'U 

shrine. 
About  the  Form,  so   nournfully  divine  I 

Oh  !  let  thine  image,  as  e'en  then  it  rose. 
Live  in  my  soul  for  ever,  calm  and  clear. 

Making  itself  a  temple  of  repose, 
Beyond  the  breath  of  human  hope  or  frnrt 

A  holy  place,  where  through  all  storms  may  lit 

One  living  beam  of  day-spring  from  on  high 


OMMUNINGS  WITH  THOUGHT. 


Could  we  but  keep  our  ipiriti  to  that  height. 
Wo  might  be  happy  ;  but  ihu  cl»jr  will  link 
JU  spark  immortal. 


Byron. 


RETURN,  my  thoughts,  con  o  home! 
Ve  wild  and  wing'd!  what  do  ye  o'er  the  deep? 
And  wherefore  thus  th'  abyss  of  time  o'ersweep 

As  birds  the  ocean  foam? 

Swifter  than  shooting  star. 
Swifter  than  glances  of  the  northern  light, 
Upspringing  through  the  purple  heaven  of  night, 

Hath  been  your  course  afar ! 

Through  the  bright  battle-clime. 
Where    laurel    boughs    make    dim    the    Grecian 

streams, 
And  reeds  are  whispering  of  heroic  theme. 

By  temples  of  old  time  : 

Through  the  north's  ancient  halls. 
Where  banners  thrill'd  of  yore,  where  harp-string* 

rung. 
But  grass  waves  now  o'er  those  that  fought  and 

sung— 
Hearth-light  hath  left  their  walls 

Through  forests  old  and  dim. 
Where   o'er  the   leaves  dread   magic  seems   to 

brood, 
And  sometimes  on  the  haunted  solitude 

Rises  the  pi:grim'u  hymn  : 

Or  when  somt  fountain  lies, 
With  lotus  cu,>s  -..in-nigh  orient  spice- woods  gleam 

ing  ! 
There  hav<j  >e  heen,  ye  wanderers!  idly  dreaming 

Of  ir.av's  ios*.  paradise  I 

Retu/n,  ray  thoughts,  return! 
Cares  v/»Jt  your  presence  in  life's  daily  track. 
And  voices,  not  of  music,  call  you  back — 

Hr.r'.h  voices,  cold  and  stern  1 

Oh  !  no,  return  ye  not  1 
Stil".  farther,  loftier,  let  your  soarings  be 
Go,  bring  me  strength   from  journeying*  bright 
and  free 

O'er  many  a  haunted  spot. 

Go.  seek  the  martyr's  grave, 
'Midst  the  old  mountains,  and  the  dpserts  vasJ; 
Or.  through  the  ruin'd  cities  of  the  past, 

Follow  the  wise  and  bravtl 

Go,  visit  cell  and  shrine) 
Where  woman   haih  endured !—  ihrougb   wrong 

through  scorn, 
Uncheer'd  by  fam*,  y,<  silently  upborne 

By  promptings  Lio'e  divine  1 

Go,  shoot  th;,  pulf  of  death! 
Track  the  pure  spirit  where  no  chain  can  bind. 
Where  the  heart's  boundless  love  its  rest  may  find, 

Where  the  storm  sends  no  breath  I 

Higher,  and  yet  more  high ! 
tihake  off  the  cumbering  chain  which  earth  would 

lay 
On  your  victorious  wings— mount,  mount  I— Your 

way 
Is  through  eternity  I 


813 


HEM  AN  S'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE    BACKED   HARP. 

How  shall  the  Harp  of  poesy  regain 
That  old  victorious  tone  of  prophet-years, 
A  spell  divine  o'er  guilt's  perturbing  fears, 
And  all  the  hovering  shadows  of  the  brain  1 
Dark  evil  wings  took  flight  before  the  strain, 
And  showers  of  holy  quiet,  with  its  fall, 
Sank  on  the  soul :— Oh!  who  may  now  recall 
The  mighty  music's  consecrated  reign  ? — 
Spirit  of  God!  whose  glory  once  o'erhung 
A  throne,  the  Ark's  dread  cherubim  between. 
Si  let  thy  presence  brood,  though  now  unseen, 
O'er  those  two    powers  by  whom  the  harp  ii 

•      strung — 

Feeling  and  Thought !— till  the  rekindled  chords 
Give  the  long-buried  tone  back  to  immortal  words) 

It 

TO   A   FAMILY    BIBLE. 

What  household  thoughts  around  thee,  as  their 

shrine. 

Cling  reverently! — of  anxious  looks  beguiled 
My  mother's  eyes,  upon  thy  page  divine, 
Each  day  were  bent; — her  accents,  gravely  mild. 
Breathed  out  thy  lore  :  whilst  I,  a  dreamy  child, 
Wander'd  on  breeze-like  fancies  oft  away, 
To  some  lone  tuft  of  gleaming  spring-flowers  wild, 
Some  fresh  discover'd  nook  for  woodland  play, 
Some  secret  nest : — yet  would  the  solemn  Word 
At  times,  with  kindlings  of  young  wonder  beard 

Pall  on  my  waken'd  spirit,  there  to  be 
A  seed  not  lost ; — for  which,  in  darker  years, 
O  Book  of  Heaven!  I  pour,  with  grateful  tears, 

Heart  blessings  on  the  holy  dead  and  thee ! 

III. 

REPOSE  OF  A   HOLT    FAMILY 

From  an  Old  Italian  Picture. 
Under  a  palm  tree,  by  the  green  old  Nile, 

Lull'd  on  his  mother's  breast,  the  fair  Child  lies, 
With  dove-like  breathings,  and  a  tender  smile, 

Brooding  above  the  slumber  of  his  eyes. 
While,  through  the  stillness  of  the  burning  skies, 

Lol  the  dread  works  of  Egypt's  buried  kings. 
Temple  and  pyramid,  beyond  him  rise, 

Regal  and  still  as  everlasting  things!— 
Vain  pomps!   from  Him,  with  that  pure  flowery 
cheek, 

Soft  shadow'd  by  his  mother's  drooping  head, 
A  new-born  Spirit,  mighty,  and  yet  meek. 

O'er  the  whole  world-like  vernal  air  Khali  spread! 
And  bid  all  earthly  Grandeurs  cast  the  crown. 
Before  the  suffering  and  the  lowly,  down. 

IV. 

PICTURE   OF  THE   INFANT   CHRIST   WITH    FLOWERS. 

All  the  bright  hues  from  eastern  garlands  glowing, 

Round  the  young  Child  luxuriantly  are  spread  ; 

Girts,  Cnirer  far  lha?  Magian  kings,  bestowing 

IN  vWattoB,  o'w  his  cradle  shed. 

R«se»,  ttaeb-fln'd  with  ri«h  midsummer's  red, 
ircle  his  hands ;  bat,  in  his  grave  sweet  eye. 

Thought  seems  e'en  now  to  wake,  and  prophecy 

Of  ruder  coronals  for  that  meek  head. 

And  thus  it  was!  a  diadem  of  thorn 
Earth  gave  to  Him  who  mantled  her  with  flow- 
ers, 
To  him  who  pour'd  forth  blessings  in  soft  showers 

O'er  all  her  paths,  a  cup  of  bitter  scorn  ! 

And  we  repine,  for  whom  that  cup  He  took, 

O'er  blooms  that  mock'd  our  hope,  o'er  idols  that 
forsook  I 


V. 

on  A  REMEMBERED  PICTURE  or  CHRIST. 
An  Eccc  Homo,  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

I  met  that  image  on  a  mirthful  day 

Of  youth  ;  and,  sinking  with  a  still'd  surprise, 

The  pride  of  life,  before  those  hojy  eyes, 
In  my  quick  heart  died  thoughtfully  away, 
Abash'd  to  mute  confession  of  a  sway, 

Awful,  though  meek ;  and  now,  that  from  the 
strings 

Of  my  soul's  lyre,  the  tempest's  mighty  wings 
Have  struck  forth  tones  which  then  awaken'd  lay  ; 
Now,  that  around  the  deep  life  of  my  mind, 
Affections,  deathless  as  itself,  have  twined, 

Oft  does  the  pale  bright  vision  still  float  by ; 
But  more  divinely  sweet,  and  speaking  now 
Of  One  whose  pity,  throned  on  that  sad  brow, 

Sounded  all  depths  of  love,  grief,  death,  huma 
nity  I 

VI. 

THE   CHILDREN   WHOM   JESUS   BLEST. 

Happy  were  they,  the  mothers,  in  whose  sicht 
Ye  grew,  fair  children  !  hallow'd  from  that  hour 
By  your  Lord's  blessing!  surely  thence  a  show  el 

Of  heavenly  beauty,  a  transmitted  light 

Hung  on  your  brows  and  eyelids,  meekly  bright, 
Through  all  the  after  years,  which  saw  ye  move 

Lowly,  yet  still  majestic,  in  the  might. 
The  conscious  glory  of  the  Saviour's  love ! 

And  honour'd  be  all  childhood,  for  the  sake 
Of  that  high  love  I    Let  reverential  care 

Watoh  to  behold  the  immortal  spirit  wake, 
And  shield  its  first  bloom  from  unholy  air; 

Owning,  in  each  young  suppliant  glance,  the  sign 

Of  claims  upon  a  heritage  divine. 

VII. 

MOUNTAIN   SANCTUARIES. 

"  He  went  -_p  to  a  mountain  apart  to  pray." 
A  child  'midst  ancient  mountains  I  have  stood. 

Where  the  wi  'd  falcons  make  their  lordly  nest 
On  high.    The  spirit  of  the  solitude 

Fell  solemnly  upon  my  infant  breast. 
Though  then  I  pray'd  not ;  but  deep  thoughts  have 
press'd 

Into  my  being  since  it  breathed  that  air, 
Nor  could  I  now  one  moment  live  the  guest 

Of  such  dread  scenes,  without  the  springs  of 

prayer 

O'erflowing  all  my  soul.    No  minsters  rise 
Like  them  in  pure  communion  with  the  skies, 
Vast,  silent,  open  unto  night  and  day  ; 

So  might  the  o'erburden'd  Son  of  man  have  felt, 

When,  turning  where  inviolate  stillness  dwelt 
He  sought  high  mountains,  there  apart  to  pray. 

VHI. 

THE   LILIES   Or  THE  FIELD. 

"  Consider  the  lilies  of  the  field." 

Flowers!  when  the  Saviour's  calm  benignant  eye 
Fell  on  your  gentle  beauty — when  from  you 
That  heavenly  lesson  from  all  hearts  he  drew, 

Eternal,  universal,  as  the  sky — 

Then,  in  the  bosom  of  your  purity, 
A  voice  He  set,  as  in  a  temple-shrine, 

That  life's  quick  travellers  ne'er  might  pans  you  by 
Unwarn'd  of  that  sweet  oracle  divine. 

And  though  too  oft  its  low,  celestial  sound, 

By  the  harsh  notes  of  work-day  Care  is  drown'd, 

And  the  loud  steps  of  vain  unlistening  Haste, 
Yet,  the  great  ocean  hath  no  tone  of  power 
Mightier  to  reach  the  soul,  in  thought's  hush'd 
hour, 

Than  yours,  ye  Lilies!  chosen  thus  and  graced ) 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


317 


IX. 

THE   BIRDS   OF  THE   AIR. 

"  And  behold  the  birds  of  the  air." 

Ye  too,  the  free  and  fearless  Birds  of  air. 

Were  charged  that  hour,  on  missionary  wing; 
The  same  bright  lesson  o'er  the  seas  to  bear. 

Heaven-guided  wanderers  with  the  winds  of 

sprint; ! 
Sing  on,  before  the  storm  and  after,  sing  I 

And  call  us  to  your  echoing  woods  away 
Prom  worldly  cares;  and  bid  our  spirits  bring 

Faith  to  imbibe  deep  wisdom  from  your  lay. 
So  may  those  blessed  vernal  strniiis  renew 
Childhood,  a  childhood  yet  more  pure  and  true 

E'en  than  the  first,  within  th'  awaken'd  mind  ; 
While  sweetly,  joyously,  they  tell  of  life, 
That  knows  no  doubts,  no  questionings,  no  strife. 

But  hangs  upon  its  God,  unconsciously  resigned. 

X. 

THE  RAISING   OF  THE   WIDOW'S   SON. 

"  And  he  that  was  dead  sat  up  and  began  to  speak." 

fie  that  was  dead  rose  up  and  spoke — He  spoke  I 

Was  it  of  that  majestic  world  unknown  ? 
Those  words,  which  first  the  bier's  dread  silence 
broke, 

Came  they  with  revelation  in  each  tone  1 
Were  the  far  cities  of  the  nations  gone. 

The  solemn  halls  of  consciousness  or  sleep. 
For  man  uncurtain'd  by  that  spirit  lone, 

Back  from  their  portal  summon'd  o'er  the  deep? 
Be  hush'd,  my  soul !  the  veil  of  darkness  lay 
Still  drawn  :— thy  Lord  call'd  back  the  voice  de- 
parted. 

To  spread  his  truth,  to  comfort  his  weak-hearted, 
Not  to  reveal  the  mysteries  of  its  way. 
Oh!  take  that  lesson  home  in  silent  faith, 
Put  on  submissive  strength  to  meet,  not  question 
death  I 

XI. 

THE   OI.IVE  TREE. 

The  Palm  — the  Vine  — the  Cedar  — each  hath 

power 

To  bid  fair  Oriental  shapes  glance  by. 
And  each  quick  glistening  of  the  Laurel  bower 
Wafts  Grecian  images  o'er  fancy's  eye. 
But  thou,  pale  Olive  ! — in  thy  branches  lie 
Far  deeper  spells  than  prophet-grove  of  old 
Might  e'er  enshrine  : — I  could  not  hear  thee  sigh 
To  the  wind's  faintest  whisper,  nor  behold 
One  shiver  of  thy  leaves'  dim  silvery  green, 
Without  high  thoughts  and  solemn,  of  that  scene 
When,  in  the  garden,  the  Redeemer  pray'd — 
When  pale  stars  look'd  upon  his  fainting  head, 
A  ml  angels,  ministering  in  silent  dread. 
Trembled,  perchance,  within  thy  trembling  shade. 

XII. 

THE    DARKNESS   OF  THE   CRUCIFIXION. 

On  Judah's  hills  a  weight  of  darkness  hung. 
Pelt  shudderingly  at  noon : — the  land  bad  driven 
A  Guest  divine  back  to  the  gates  of  Heaven, 
A  life,  whence  all  pure  founts  of  healing  sprung, 
AM  grace,  all  truth  : — and,  when  to  anguish  wrung, 
From  the  sharp  cross  th'  enlightening  spirit  fled, 
O'er  the  forsaken  earth  a  pall  of  dread 
By  the  great  shadow  of  that  death  was  flung. 
O  Saviour!  O  Atoner!  thou  that  fain 
Wouldst  niake  thy  temple  in  each  human  breast, 
Leave  not  such  darkness  in  my  soul  to  reign, 
Ne'er  may  thy  presence  from  its  depths  depart. 
Chased  thence  by  guilt ! — Oh !  turn  not  tkau  away, 
The  bright  and  morning  star,  my  guide  to  perfect 
day! 

XIII. 

PLACES    OF  WORSHIP. 

"  God  is  a  Spirit." 

Spirit  I  whose  life-sustaining  presence  fills 
Air,  ocean,  central  depths,  by  man  untried. 


Thou  for  thy  worshippers  hast  sanctified 
All  place,  all  time !    The  silence  of  the  hills 
Breathes  veneration  : — founts  and  choral  rills 
Of  thee  are  murmuring:— to  its  inmost  glade 
The  living  forest  with  thy  whisper  thrills, 
And  there  is  holiness  on  every  shade. 
Yet  must  the  thoughtful  soul  of  man  invest 
With  dearer  consecration  those  pure  fanes. 
Which,  sever'd  from  all  sound  of  earth's  unrest, 
Hear  naught  but  suppliant  or  adoring  strains 
Rise  heavenward. — Ne'er  may  rock  or  cave  possess 
Their  claim  on  human  hearts  to  solemn  tender 
ness. 

XIV. 

OLD  CHURCH  IN  AN  ENGLISH  PARK. 

Crowning  a  flowery  slope,  it  stood  alone 
In  gracious  sanctity.    A  bright  rill  wound, 
Caressingly,  about  the  holy  ground; 
And  warbled,  with  a  never-dying  tone, 
Amidst  the  tombs.     A  hue  of  ages  gone 
Seem'd,  from  that  ivied  porch,  that  solemn  gleam 
Of  lower  and  cross,  pale  quivering  on  the  stream, 
O'er  all  th'  ancestral  woodlands  to  be  thrown. 
And  something  yet  more  deep.  The  air  was  fraught 
With  noble  memories,  whispering  many  a  thought 
Of  England's  fathers;  loftily  serene, 
They  that  had  toil'd,  watcli'd.  struggled,  to  secure. 
Within  such  fabrics,  worship  free  and  pure, 
Reign'd  there,   the  o'ershadowing  spirits  of  the 
scene. 

XV. 

A    CHURCH  IN    NORTH   WALES. 

Blessings  be  round  it  still !   that  gleaming  fane, 
Low  in  its  mountain-glen!  old  mossy  trees 
Mellow  the  sunshine  through  the  untinted  pane, 
And  oft,  borne  in  upon  some  fitful  breeze. 
The  deep  sound  of  the  ever-pealing  seas. 
Filling  the  hollows  with  its  anthem-tone, 
There  meets  the  voice  of  psalms  I — yet  not  alone. 
For  memories  lulling  to  the  heart  as  these, 
I  bleas  thee,  'midst  thy  rocks,  gray  house  of  prayer  I 
But  for  thtir  sakes  who  unto  thee  repair 
From  the  Kill-cabins  and  the  ocean-shore. 
Oh!  may  the  fisher  and  the  mountaineer. 
Words  to  sustain  earth's  toiling  children  hear, 
Within  thy  lowly  walls  for  evermore  1 

XVI. 

LOUISE   SCHEPLER. 

Louise  Schepler  was  the  faithful  servant  and  friend  ot 
the  pastor  Oberlin.  The  last  letter  addressed  by  him 
to  his  children  for  their  perusal  after  his  decease,  of 
feelingly  commemorates  her  unwearied  zeal  in  visiting 
and  instructing  the  children  of  the  mountain  hamlets 
through  all  seasons,  and  in  all  circumstances  of  djfB 
culty  and  danger. 

A  fearless  journeyer  o'er  the  mountain  snow 
Wert  thou,  Louise!  the  sun's  decaying  light, 
Oft,  with  its  latest  melancholy  glow, 
Redden'd  thy  steep  wild  way  :  the  starry  night 
Oft  met  thee,  crossing  some  lone  eagle's  height 
Piercing  some  dark  ravine:  and  many  a  dell 
Knew,  through  its  ancient  rock-recesses  well, 
Thy  gentle  presence,  which  hath  made  them  bright 
Oft  in  mid-storms  ;  oh  !  not  with  beauty's  eye. 
Nor  the  proud  glance  of  genius  keenly  burning; 
No!  pilgrim  of  unwearying  charity! 
Thy  spell  was  love—  the  mountain  deserts  turning 
To  blessed  realms,  where  stream  and  rock  rejoice, 
When  the  glad  human  soul  lifts  a  thanksgiving 
voice ! 

XVII. 

TO  THE   SAME. 

For  thou,  a  holy  shepherdess  and  kind, 
Through  the  pine  forests,  by  the  upland  rills, 
Didst  roam  to  seek  the  children  of  the  hills, 
A  wild  neglected  flock !  to  seek,  and  find. 
And  meekly  win  !  there  feeding  each  young  mini 
With  balms  of  heavenly  eloquence:  not  (Ain«, 
Daughter  of  Christ!  but  his.  whose  love  divine. 
Its  own  clear  spirit  in  thy  breast  had  shrined. 


S18 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A  burning  light)  Oh!  beautiful,  in  truth, 
Upon  the  mountains  are  the  feet  of  those 
Who  bear  his  tidings !    From  thy  morn  of  youth, 
For  this  were  all  thy  journeyings,  and  the  close 
Of  that  long  path,  Heaven's  own  bright  sabbath- 
rest, 
Must  wait  thee,  wanderer!  on  thy  Saviour's  breast. 


LINES 
TC  A  BUTTERFLY  RESTING  ON  A  SKULL. 


CREATURE  of  air  and  light  I 
Emblem  of  that  which  will  not  fade  or  diet 

Wilt  thou  not  speed  thy  flight, 
To  chase  the  south  wind  through  the  glowing  sky  f 

What  lures  thee  thus  to  stay. 

With  silence  and  decay, 
Fix'd  on  tbe  wreck  of  cold  mortality  1 

The  thoughts,  once  chamber'd  there, 
Have  gather'd  up  their  treasures,  and  are  gone;— 

Will  the  dust  tell  thee  where 
That  which  hath  burst  the  prison-house  is  flown  ? 

Rise,  nursling  of  the  day  ! 

If  thou  would'st  trace  its  way — 
Earth  has  no  voice  to  make  the  secret  known 

Who  seeks  the  vanish'd  bird, 
Nt»r  the  deserted  nest  and  broken  shell  ? 

Far  thence,  by  us  unheard, 
He  sinps,  rejoicing  in  th*  woods  to  dwell, 

Thou  of  the  sunshine  horn. 

Take  the  bright  wings  of  morn ! 
7%y  hope  spri ngs  heavenward  from  yon  ntin'd  celt 


THE  PALMER 


The  faded  palm-branch  in  hii  hand, 
Sbew'd  pilgrim  from  the  Holy  Land. 


Scott. 


AKT  thou  eome  from  the  far-off  land  at  last  1 

Thou  that  hast  wander'd  long  I 
Thou  art  come  to  a  home  whence  the  smile  hath 
pass'd, 

"With  the  merry  voice  of  song. 

For  the  sunny  glance  and  the  bounding  heart 
Thou  wilt  seek —  but  all  are  gone ; 

They  are  parted  e'en  as  waters  part, 
To  meet  in  the  deep  alone ! 

And  f  hou— from  thy  _ip  is  fled  the  glow, 
From  thine  eye  the  light  of  morn; 

And  the  shades  of  thought  o'erhang  thy  brow, 
And  thy  cheek  with  life  is  worn. 

Say  what  bast  thou  brought  from  the  distant  shore 

For  thy  wasted  youth  to  pay? 
Hast  thou  treasure  to  win  thee  joys  once  more  f 

Hast  thou  vassals  to  smooth  thy  way? 

•  I  have  brought  but  the  palm  branch  in  my  hand, 
Yet  I  call  riot  my  bright  youth  lost  I 

I  have  won  but  high  thought  in  the  Holy  Land, 
Yet  I  count  not  too  dear  the  cost  I 

"  I  look  on  the  leaves  of  the  deathless  tree— 

These  records  of  my  track ; 
And  better  than  youth  in  its  flush  of  glee, 

Are  the  memories  they  give  me  back  1 

"  They  speak  of  toil,  and  of  high  emprise, 

As  in  words  of  solemn  cheer, 
They  speak  of  lonely  victories 

O'er  pain,  and  doubt,  and  fear. 


"  They  speak  of  scenes  which  have  now  become 

Bright  pictures  in  my  breast ; 
Where  my  spirit  finds  a  glorious  home, 

And  the  love  of  my  heart  can  rest. 

"  The  colours  pass  not  from  then  away. 

Like  tints  of  shower  or  sun  ; 
Oh  t  beyond  all  treasures  that  know  decay. 

Is  the  wealth  my  soul  hath  won  1 

"A  rich  light  thence  o'er  my  life's  decline, 

An  inborn  licht  is  cast; 
For  the  sake  of  the  palm  from  the  holy  shrine, 

I  bewail  not  my  bright  days  past  I" 


THE  WATER-LILy. 


The  Water-Lilies,  that  are  serene  in  tbe  calm  cleat 
water,  but  no  less  serene  among  the  black  and  scowlmf 
wave*. — Lights  and  Shadows  of  Scottish  Lift. 


OH!  beautiful  thou  art, 
Thou  sculpture-like  and  stately  River-Quern  I 
Crowning  the  depths,  as  with  the  light  serene 

Of  a  pure  heart. 

Bright  lily  of  the  wave ! 
Rising  in  fearless  grace  with  every  swell, 
Thou  seem'st  as  if  a  spirit  meekly  brave 

Dwelt  in  thy  cell: 

Lifting  alike  thy  head 
Of  placid  beauty,  feminine  yet  free. 
Whether  with  foam  or  pictured  azure  spread 

The  waters  be. 

What  is  like  thee,  fair  flower, 
The  gen  tie  and  the  firm  ?  thus  bearing  up 
To  the  blue  sky  that  alabaster  cup, 

As  to  the  shower  ? 

Oh!  Love  is  most  like  thee. 
The  love  of  woman  ;  quivering  to  the  blast 
Through  every  nerve,  yet  rooted  deep  and  fart, 

'Midst  Life's  dark  sea. 

And  Faith— O,  is  not  faith 
Like  thee  too,  Lily,  springing  into  light. 
Still  buoyantly,  above  the  billows'  might. 

Through  the  storm's  breath  ? 

Yes,  link'd  with  such  high  thought. 
Flower,  let  thine  image  in  my  bosom  lie ! 
Till  something  there  of  it  A  own  puri'y 

And  peace  bo  wrought: 

Something  yet  mrro  divine 
Than  the  clear,  pearly  virg  n  lusne  shed 
Forth  from  thy  breast  upon  the  river's  bed, 

As  from  a  shrine. 


THOUGHT  FR~M  AN  ITALIAN  POET. 


WHERE  shall  I  find,  in  all  this  fleeting  earth, 
This  world  of  changes  and  farewells,  a  friend 

That  will  not  fail  me  in  hi*  love  and  worth, 
Tender,  and  firm,  and  faithful  to  the  end  7 

Far  hath  my  spirit  sought  a  place  of  rest- 
Long  on  vain  idols  its  devotion  shed  ; 

Some  have  forsaken  whom  I  loved  the  best, 
And  some  deceived,  and  some  are  with  the  dead 

But  thou,  my  Saviour!  thou,  my  hope  and  trust. 
Faithful  art  thou  when  friends  and  joys  depart 
each  me  to  lift  these  yearnings  from  the  dust, 
And  fir  on  thee,  th'  Unchanging  One,  my  heart 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Sit 


ELYSIUM. 


In  the  Elysium  of  the  ancients,  we  find  none  but  he- 
roe*  and  persons  who  had  either  been  fortunate  or 
distinguished  on  earth ;  the  children,  and  apparently 
the  slaves  and  lower  classes,  that  is  to  say,  Poverty, 
Misfortune,  and  Innocence,  were  banished  to  the  in- 
fernal regions." 

Chateaubriand,  Genie  du  C/iristianisme. 


FAIR  wert  thou  in  the  dreams 
Of  elder  time,  thou  land  of  glorious  flowers. 
And  summer  winds,  and  low-toned  silvery  streams 
B.m  with  the  shadows  of  thy  laurel-bowers! 

Where,  as  they  pass'd,  bright  hours 
Left  no  faint  sense  of  parting,  such  as  clings 
To  earthly  love,  and  joy  in  loveliest  things  ! 

Fair  wert  thou,  with  the  light 
On  thy  blue  hills  and  sleepy  waters  cast, 
From  purple  skies  ne'er  deepening  into  night, 
Vet  sort,  as  if  each  moment  were  their  last 

Of  glory,  fading  fast 

Along  the  mountains! — but  thy  golden  day 
Was  not  as  those  that  warn  us  of  decay. 

And  ever,  through  thy  shadei, 
A  «well  of  deep  JE«\\an  sound  went  by, 
From  fountain-voices  in  their  secret  glades, 
And  low  rcpd-whispers.  making  sweet  reply 

To  summer's  breezy  sigh! 
And  young  leaves  trembling  to  the  wind's  light 

breath 
Which  ne'er  had  touch'd  them  with  a  hue  of  death ! 

And  the  transparent  sky 
Rang  as  a  dome,  all  thrilling  to  the  strain 
Of  harps  that,  'midst  the  woods,  made  harmony 
Solemn  and  sweet ;  yet  trr.ublinc  not  the  brain 

With  dreams  and  yearnings  vain, 
And  dim  remembrances,  that  still  draw  birth 
From  the  bewildering  music  of  the  earth. 

And  who,  with  silent  tread. 
Moved  o'er  the  plains  of  waving  Asphodel? 
Jail  (I  from  the  dim  procession  of  the  Dead, 
Who,  'midst  the  shadowy  amaranth-bowers  might 
dwell. 

And  listen  to  the  swell 
Of  those  majestic  hymn-notes,  and  inhale 
The  spirit  wandering  in  the  immortal  gale  ? 

They  of  the  sword,  whose  praise, 
With   the   bright   wine  at  nations'  feasts,  went 

round ! 

They  of  the  lyre,  whose  unforgotten  lays 
Forth  on  the  winds  had  sent  their  mighty  sound. 

And  in  all  regions  found 

Their  echoes  'midst  the  mountains  ! — and  become 
In  man's  deep  heart  aa  voices  of  his  home  1 

They  of  the  daring  thought  I 
Daring  and  powerful,  yet  to  dust  allied — 
Whose  flight  through  stars,  and  seas,  and  depths 

had  sought 
The  soul's  far  birth-place — but  without  a  guide) 

Sages  and  seers,  who  died, 
And  left  the  world  their  high  mysterious  dreams, 
*>«>rn  'midst  the  olive-woods,  by  Grecian  stream*. 

But  the  most  loved  are  they 

CT  whom  Fame  speaks  not  with  her  clarion  voice 
In  regal  halls!  the  shades  o'erhang  their  way, 
The  vale,  with  its  deep  fountains,  is  their  choice, 

And  gentle  hearts  rejoice 
Around  their  steps  ;  till,  silently,  they  die, 
Ae  a  stream  shrinks  from  summer's  burning  eye. 

And  these — of  whose  abode, 
Mi'lst  her  green  valleys,  earth  retain'd  no  trace, 
Save  a  flower  springing  from  their  burial-sod, 
A  shade  of  snduess  on  some  kindred  face, 

A  dim  and  vacant  place 
In  dome  sweet  home;— thou  hadst  no  wreath  for 

these. 
Tliou  sunny  land  !  with  all  thy  deathless  trees! 


The  peasant  at  his  door 

Might  sink  to  die  when  vintage  feasts  were  spread. 
And  songs  on  every  wind  !  From  thy  bright  shore 
No  lovelier  vision  floated  round  his  head — 

Thou  wert  for  nobler  dead! 

He  heard  the  bounding  steps  which  round  him  fell, 
And  sigh'd  to  bid  the  festal  Sun  farewell ! 

The  slave,  whose  very  tears 
Were  a  forbidden  luxury,  and  whose  breast 
Kept  the  mute  woes  and  burning  thoughts  of 

years, 
As  embers  in  a  burial  urn  compress'd; 

He  might  not  be  thy  guest  I 
No  gentle  breathings  from  thy  distant  sky 
Came  o'er  his  path,  and  whisper'd  "  Liberty  I" 

Calm,  on  its  leaf-strewn  bier. 
Unlike  a  gift  of  nature  to  decay, 
Too  rose-like  still,  too  beautiful,  too  dear, 
The  child  at  rest  before  the  mother  lay. 

E'en  so  to  pass  away. 
With  its  bright  smile  !  what  wert  thou 
To  her,  who  wept  o'er  that  young  slumberer'sbrowt 

Thou  hadst  no  home,  green  land 
For  the  fair  creature  from  her  bosom  gone, 
With  life's  fresh  flowers  just  opening  in  its  hand, 
And  all  the  lovely  thoughts  and  dreams  unknown, 

Which,  in  its  clear  eye^shone 
Like  spring's  first  wakening!  but  that  light  wan 

past — 
Where  went  the  dew-drop  swept  before  the  blast  T 

Not  where  thy  soft  winds  play'd, 
Not  where  thy  waters  lay  in  glassy  sleep! 
Fade  with  thy  bowers,  thou  land  of  visions,  fade) 
From  thee  no  voice  came  o'er  the  gloomy  deep. 

And  bade  man  cease  to  weep ! 
Fade,  with  the  amaranth-plnin,  the  myrtle  grove, 
Which  could  not  yield  one  hope  to  sorrowing  love  1 


BELSHAZZAR'S  FEAST. 


TWAS  night  in  Babylon :  yet  many  a  beam 
Of  lamps  far-glittering  from  her  domes  on  high, 
Shone,  brichtly  minelins  in  Euphrates'  stream. 
With  the  clear  stars  of  that  Chaldean  sky, 
Whose  azure  knows  no  cloud: — each  whisper'd 

sigh 
Of  the  soft  night-breeze  through  her  terrace* 

bowers 

Bore  deepening  tones  of  joy  and  melody. 
O'er  an  illumined  wilderness  of  flowers; 
And  me  glad  city's  voice  went  up  from  all  hei 
towers. 

But  prouder  mirth  was  in  the  kingly  hall, 
Where,  'midst  adoring  slaves,  a  gorgeous  bano 
High  at  the  stately  midnight  festival, 
Belshazzar  sat  enthroned.— There  Luxury's  ham 
Had  showor'd  around  all  treasures  that  expand 
Beneath  the  burning  East!— all  gems  that  pour 
The  sunbeams  back  ;— all  sweets  of  many  a  land 
Whose  gales  waft  incense  from  their  spicy  shore' 
—But  mortal  pride  look'd  on,  and  still  demanded 
more. 

With  richer  zest  the  banquet  may  hf»  fr:  ueht, 
A  loftier  theme  may  swell  th'  exulting  strain! 
The  Lord  of  nations  spoke,  —  and  forth  wert 

brought 

The  spoils  of  Salem's  devastated  fane 
Thrice  holy  vessels!— pure  from  earthly  stain. 
And  set  apart,  and  sanctified  to  Him, 
Who  deign'd  within  the  oracle  to  reign, 
Reveal'd,  yet  shadow'd;  making  noon -day  dim. 
To  that  most  glorious  cloud  between  the  Cherubim. 

They  came,  and  louder  peal'd  the  voice  of  song, 
And  pride  flash'd  brighter  from  the  kindling  eye, 
And  He  who  sleeps  not  heard  th'  elated  throng, 
In  mirth  that  plays  with  thunderbolts,  defy 
The  Rock  of  Zionl— Fill  the  nectar  high. 


320 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


High  in  the  cups  of  consecrated  gold ! 
And  crown  the  bowl  with  garlands,  ere  they  die. 
And  bid  the  censers  of  the  Temple  hold 
Offerings  to  Babel's  gods,  th-:  mighty  ones  of  old! 

Peace  ! — is  it  but  a  phantom  of  the  brain. 
Thus  shadow'd  forth  the  senses  to  appal. 
Yon  fearful  vision  ? — Who  shall  gaze  again 
To  search  its  cause  ?  —Along  the  illumined  wall. 
Startling,  yet  riveting  the  eyes  of  all, 
Darkly  it  moves, — a  hand,  a  human  hand. 
O'er  the  bright  lamps  of  that  resplendent  hall 
In  silence  tracing,  as  a  mystic  wand, 
Words  all  unknown,  the  tongue  of  some  far  dii 
tant  land. 

There  are  pale  cheeks  around  the  regal  board. 
And  quivering  lips  and  whispers  deep  and  low. 
And  fitful  starts!— the  wine  in  triumph  pour'd, 
Untasted  foams,  the  song  hath  ceased  to  flow. 
The  waving  censer  drops  to  earth — and  lo ! 
The  King  of  Men,  the  Ruler,  girt  with  might, 
Trembles  before  a  shadow ! — Say  not  so ! 
—The  child  of  dust,  witr  guilt's  foreboding  sight, 
Shrinks  from  the  Dread  Unknown,  th'  avenging 
Infinite  I 

But  haste  ye! — bring  Chaldea's  gifted  seers, 
The  men  of  prescienre !— haply  to  their  eyes, 
Which  track  the  tuture  through  the  rolling 

sphere*, 

Yon  mystic  sign  may  speak  in  prophecies. 
They  come — the  readers  of  the  midnight  skies, 
They  that  give  voice  to  visions— but  in  vainl 
Still  wrapt  in  clouds  the  awful  secret  lies, 
It  hath  no  language  'midst  the  starry  train, 
Rarth  has  no  silted  tongue  Heaven's  mysteries  to 

explain. 

Then  stood  forth  one,  a  child  of  other  sires. 
And  other  inspiration ! — One  of  those 
Who  on  the  willows  nuns;  their  captive  !yre«, 
And  sat,  and  wept,  whor.:  Babel's  river  flows. 
His  eye  was  bright,  and  yet  the  deep  repose 
Of  his  pale  features  half  o'erawed  the  mind, 
And  imaged  forth  a  soul,  whose  joys  and  woei 
Were  of  a  loftier  stamp  than  aught  assign'd 
To  earth;  a  being  seal'd  and  sever'd  from  man- 
kind. 

Yes!— what  was  earth  to  him,  whose  spirit  pass'd 
Time's  utmost  bounds? — on  whose  unshrinking 

sight 

Ten  thousand  shapes  of  burning  glory  cast 
Their  full  resplendence  ?— Majesty  and  might 
Were  in  his  dreams; — for  him  the  veil  of  light 
Shrouding    heaven's    inmost    sanctuary    and 

throne, 

The  curtain  of  th'  unutterably  bright 
Was  raised! — to  him,  in  fearful  splendour  shown, 
Ancient  of  days !  e'en  thou  mad'st  thy  dread  pre- 
sence known. 

He  spoke ; — the  shadows  of  the  things  to  come 
Pass'd  o'er  his  soul :— "  O  King,  elate  in  pride ! 
God  hath  sent  forth  the  writing  of  thy  doom, 
The  one,  the  living  God,  by  thee  defied ! 
He  in  whose  balance  earthly  lords  are  tried. 
Hath  weigh'd,  and  found  thee  wanting.    'T  is 

decreed 

The  conqueror's  hands  thy  kingdom  shall  divide. 
The  stranger  to  thy  throne  of  power  succeed ! 
Fhe  days  are  full,  they  come}— the  Persian  and 

theMedel" 


Ther.-  fell  a  moment's  thrilling  silence  round, 
A  brainless  pause!  the  hush  of  hearts  that  beat 
And  limbs  tliiit  quiver  : — is  there  not  a  sound, 
A  gathering  cry.  a  tread  of  hurrying  feet? 
— "('  was  but  some  echo  in  the  crowded  street, 
Of  far-heard  revelry  ;  the  shout,  the  song. 
The  measured  dance  to  music  wuuiy  sweet, 
That  speeds  the  stars  their  joyous  course  along  ;— 
Away  !  nor  let  a  dream  disturb  the  festal  throng  1 

Peace  yet  aga'n  !— Hark  !  steps  in  tumult  flying, 
Steeds  rushing  on  as  o'er  a  battlp-fioldl 
The  shout  of  hosts  exulting  or  defying. 
The  press  of  multitudes  that  strive  or  yielii ! 
And  the  loud,  startling  clash  of  spear  and  shield, 
Sudden  as  earthquake's  burst !— and,  blent  with 

these, 
The  last  wild  shriek  of  those  whose  doom  i* 

seal'd 

In  their  full  mirth ! — all  deepening  on  the  breeze. 
As  the  long  stormy  roar  of  far  advancing  seas! 

And  nearer  yet  the  trumpet's  blast  is  swelling. 
Loud,  shrill,  and  savage,  drowning  every  cry  1 
And  lo  !  the  spoiler  in  the  regal  dwelling, 
Death  bursting  on  the  halls  of  revelry  I 
Ere  one  bright  star  be  faded  from  the  sky, 
Red  flames,  like  banners,  wave  from  dome  and 

fane, 
Empire  is  lost  and  won,  Belshazzar  with  the  slain. 

Fallen  is  the  golden  city !  in  the  dust 
Spoil'd  of  her  crown,  dismantled  of  her  state, 
She  that  hath  made  the  Strength  of  Towers  net 

trust, 

Weeps  by  her  dead,  supremely  desolate! 
She  that  beheld  the  nations  at  her  gate. 
Thronging  in  homage,  shall  be  call'd  no  more 
l^ady  of  kingdoms!— Who  shall  mourn  her  fate! 
Her  guilt  is  full,  her  march  of  triumph  o'er; — 
— What  widow'd  land  shall  now  her  widowhood 
deplore  ? 

Sit  thou  in  silence !    Thou  that  wert  enthroned 
On  many  waters  !  thou,  whose  augurs  read 
The  language  of  the  planets,  and  disown'd 
The  mighty  name  it  blazons  ! — Veil  thy  head, 
Daughter  of  Babylon  !  the  sword  is  red 
From  thy  destroyers'  harvest,  and  the  yoke 
Is  on  thee,  O  most  riroud  ! — for  thou  hast  said, 
"  I  am,  and  none  beside  !" — Th'  Eternal  spoke, 
Thy  glory  was  a  spoil,  thine  idol-gods  were  broke. 

But  go  thou  forth,  O  Israel !  wake!  rejoice  I 
Be  clothed  with  strength,  as  in  thine  ancient  day. 
Renew  the  sound  of  harps,  th'  exulting  voice, 
The  mirth  of  timbrels !— loose  the  chain,  and  say 
God  hath  redeem'd  his  people  !— from  decay 
The  silpnt  and  the  trampled  shall  arise  ; 
— Awake  ;  put  on  thy  beautiful  array, 
Oh  long-forsaken  Zion  !  to  the  skies 
Send  up  on  every  wind  thy  choral  melodies ! 

And  lift  ih?  nead !— Behold  thy  sons  returning, 
Redeem'd  from  exile,  ransom 'd  from  the  chain! 
Light  hath  revisited  the  house  of  mourning ; 
She  that  on  Judah's  mountain  wept  in  vain 
Because  her  children  were  not— dwells  again 
Girt  with  the  lovely  !— through  thy  streets  one« 

more, 

City  of  God  !  shall  pass  the  bridal  train 
And  the  bright  lamps  their  festive  radiar.ce  pony 
And  the  triumphal  hymns  the  joy  of  youth  resiora 


HYMNS 


ro* 


CHILDHOOD. 


PREFACE. 


THE  following  rery  simple  compositions  were  written  a  few  years  ago,  exclusively  for  the 
Author's  family  circle,  and  without  the  remotest  liea  of  their  publication.  It  is  now  her  wish  to 
render  them  more  extensively,  however  hnmbly,  useful.  The  Hymns  were  intended  to  associate 
the  first  devotional  thoughts  of  childhood  with  the  loveliuens  and  solemnity  diffused  orer  tie 
outward  creation.  Shonld  they  prove  acceptable,  they  may  perhaps  be  followed  by  a  series,  o/ 
a  character  more  entire'  j  •crlptura* 


HYMNS   FOR   CHILDHOOD. 


INTRODUCTORY  VERSES. 

On!  blest  art  thou,  whose  steps  may  rove 
Tluough  the  green  paths  of  valo  and  grove, 
Or     •yivi  ig  all  their  charms  below, 
Climb  the  wild  mountain's  airy  brow; 

And  gaze  afar  o'er  cultured  plains, 
And  cities  with  their  stately  fanes, 
And  forests,  thav  beneath  thee  lie, 
And  ocean  mingling  with  the  sky. 

For  man  can  show  thee  naught  so  fair, 
As  Nature  s  vari  id  marvels  there  ; 
And  if  thy  pure  and  artless  breast 
Can  feel  their  grandeur,  thou  art  blest 

For  thee  the  stream  in  beauty  flows, 
For  thee  the  gale  of  summer  blows, 
And,  in  deep  glen  and  wood-walk  free, 
Voices  of  joy  still  breathe  for  thee, 

But  happier  far,  if  then  thy  soul 
Can  soar  to  Him  who  made  the  whole, 
If  to  thine  eye  the  simplest  flower 
Portray  His  bounty  and  His  power. 

If,  In  whate'er  is  bright  or  grand, 
Thy  mind  -can  trace  His  viewless  hand, 
If  Nature's  music  bid  thee  raise 
Thy  song  of  gratitude  and  praise  ; 

II  heaven  and  earth  with  beauty  fraught, 


, 

Lead  to  His  throne  thy  raptured  thought, 
here  thou  lov'st  His  love  to  read, 


If  th 


, 
Then  wanderer,  thou  art  blest  indeed. 


THE  RAINBOW. 


I  do  set  my  bow  in  the  cloud,  and  it  shall  be  for  a  to 
ken  «f  a  covenant  between  me  and  the  earth. 

Geneii*u.l'i 

Son  falls  the  mild,  reviving  shorer 

From  April's  changeful  skies, 
And  rain-drops  bwid  each  trembling  flower 

They  tinge  with  richer  dyes. 
Soon  shall  their  genial  influence  call 

A  thousand  buds  to  day, 
Which,  waiting  but  that  balmy  fall, 

In  hidden  beauty  lay. 

E'en  now  full  many  a  blossom's  bell 

With  fragrance  fills  the  shade  1 
And  verdure  clothes  each  grassy  dell, 

In  brighter  tints  array'd. 

But  mark  !  what  arch  of  varied  hue 
From  Heaven  to  earth  is  bow'd  I 

Haste,  ere  it  vanish,  haste  to  view 
The  Rainbow  in  the  cloud. 


How  bright  its  glory !  there  behold 

The  emerald's  verdant  rays, 
The  topaz  blends  its  hue  of  gold 

With  the  deep  ruby's  blaze. 

Yet  not  alone  to  charm  thy  sight 

Was  given  the  vision  fair ; — 
Gaze  on  that  arch  o'f  colour'd  light. 

And  read  God's  mercy  there. 

It  tells  us  that  the  mighty  deep, 

Fast  by  th'  Eternal  chain'd. 
No  more  o'er  earth's  domains  shall  sweep. 

Awful  and  unrestrain'd. 

It  tells  that  seasons,  heat  and  cold, 

Fix'd  by  his  sovereign  will. 
Shall,  in  their  course,  bid  man  behold 

Seed-time  and  harvest  still ; 

That  still  the  flower  shall  deck  the  field 

When  vernal  zephyrs  blow ; 
That  still  the  vine  its  fruit  shall  yield, 

When  autumn  sun-beams  glow. 

Then,  child  of  that  fair  earth  t  which  yrt 
Smiles  with  each  charm  endow'd. 

Bless  thou  His  name,  whose  mercy  set 
The  Rainbow  in  the  cloud  I 


THE  SUN. 


THE  Sun  comes  forth ;— each  mountain  height 

Glows  with  a  tinge  of  rosy  light, 

And  flowers  that  slumber'd  through  the  niptt 

Their  dewy  leaves  unfold; 
A  flood  of  splendour  bursts  on  high, 
And  ocean's  breast  reflects  a  sky 

Of  crimson  and  of  gold. 

Oh!  thou  art  glorious,  orb  of  day  I 
Exulting  nations  hail  thy  ray, 
Creation  swells  a  choral  lay, 

To  welcome  thy  return  ; 
From  thee  all  nature  draws  her  hue*, 
Thy  beams  the  insect's  wings  suffuse. 

And  in  the  diamond  burn. 

Yet  must  thou  fade  ;— when  earth  and  hear** 
By  fire  and  tempest  shall  be  riven, 
Thou,  from  thy  sphere  of  radiance  drivel 

Oh  Sun  !  must  fall  at  last ; 
Another  heaven,  another  earth. 
Far  other  glory  shall  have  birth, 

When  all  we  see  is  past. 

But  He,  who  gave  the  word  of  might, 
"  Let  there  be  light"— and  there  teas  light. 
Who  bade  thee  chase  the  gloom  of  night, 
(333) 


324 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  beam,  the  world  to  bless ; — 
For  ever  bright,  for  ever  pure, 
Alone,  unchanging,  shall  endure 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness ! 


THE  RIVERS. 

Go !  trace  th*  unnumber'd  streams  o'er  earth 
That  wind  their  devious  course. 

That  draw  from  Alpine  heights  their  birth, 
Deep  vale,  or  cavern  source. 

Some  by  majestic  cities  glide, 
Proud  scenes  of  man's  renown. 

Some  lead  their  solitary  tide. 
Where  pathless  forests  frown. 

Some  calmly  roll  in  golden  sands. 

Where  Afric's  deserts  lie  ! 
Or  spread,  to  clothe  rejoicing  lands 

With  rich  fertility. 

These  bear  the  bark,  whose  stately  sail 

Exulting  seems  to  swell ; 
While  these,  scarce  rippled  by  a  gale, 

Sleep  in  the  lonely  dell. 

Yet  on,  alike  though  swift  or  slow 
Their  various  waves  may  sweep. 

Through  cities  or  through  shades  they  flow 
To  the  same  boundless  deep. 

Oh  !  thus,  whate'er  our  path  of  life. 
Through  sunshine  or  through  gloom. 

Through  scenes  of  quiet  or  of  strife. 
Its  end  is  still  the  tomb. 

The  chief,  whose  mighty  deeds  we  hail. 

The  monarch  throned  on  high, 
The  peasant  in  his  native  vale, 

All  journey  on — to  die  I 

But  if  Thy  guardian  care,  my  God » 

The  pilgrim's  course  attend, 
I  will  not  fear  the  dark  abode. 

To  which  my  footsteps  bend. 

For  thence  thine  all-redeeming  Son, 

Who  died,  the  world  to  save, 
In  light,  in  triumph,  rose,  and  won 

The  victory  from  the  grave  I 


THE  STARS. 

The  heavens  declare  the  elory  of  God,  and  the  firm* 
»ent  showeth  his  handy-work. Paalm  us.  I. 


No  cloud  obscures  the  summer  sky, 
The  moon  in  brightness  walks  on  high. 
And,  set  in  azure,  every  star 
Shines,  like  a  gem  of  heaven,  afar  I 

Child  of  the  earth !  oh !  lift  thy  glance 
To  yon  bright  firmament's  expanse. 
The  glories  of  its  realm  explore, 
And  gaze,  and  wonder,  and  adore  I 

R«nh  it  not  speak  to  every  sense 
The  marvels  of  Omnipotence? 
St-e'st  thou  riot  there  th'  Almighty  name 
Inscribed  in  characters  of  flame  1 

Count  o'er  those  lamps  of  quenchless  light. 
Thai  sparkle  through  the  shades  of  night  I 
Behold  then)  !— can  a  mortal  boast 
To  number  I  bat  celestial  host  1 

Mark  well  «-ich  little  star,  whose  rayi 
In  distant  splendour  meet  thy  gaze ; 
Each  is  a  world  by  Him  sustain'd. 
Who  from  eternity  hath  reign'd. 


Each,  shining  not  for  earth  alone, 
Hath  suns  a. id  planets  of  its  own, 
And  beings,  whose  existence  spring* 
From  Him,  th'  all-powerful  King  of  king*, 

Haply,  those  glorious  beings  know 
Nor  stain  of  guilt,  nor  tear  of  woe  I 
But  raising  still  th'  adoring  voice. 
For  ever  in  their  God  rejoice. 

What  then  art  thou,  oh  !  child  of  clay  I 
Amid  creation's  grandeur,  say  ? 
— E'en  as  an  insect  on  the  breeze. 
E'en  as  a  dew-drop,  lost  in  seas  I 

Yet  fear  thou  not ! — the  sovereign  hand. 
Which  spread  the  ocean  and  the  land. 
And  hung  the  rolling  spheres  in  air, 
Hath,  e'en  for  thee,  a  Father's  care  1 

Be  thou  at  peace ! — th'  all -seeing  eye. 
Pervading  earth,  and  air,  and  sky, 
The  searching  glance  which  none  may  flee. 
Is  still,  in  mercy,  turn'd  on  thee. 


THE  OCEAN. 


They  that  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  that  do  bust 
new  in  great  waters,  these  see  the  works  of  the  Lor4 
and  his  wonders  in  the  deep. Psalm  cvii.  23,  24 


HE  that  in  venturous  barks  bath  been 

A  wanderer  on  the  deep, 
Can  tell  of  many  an  awful  scene. 

Where  storms  for  ever  sweep. 

For  many  a  fair  majestic  right 

Hath  met  his  wandering  eye, 
Beneath  the  streaming  northern  light. 

Or  blaze  of  India  i  sky. 

Go  !  ask  him  of  the  whirlpool's  roar, 

Whose  echoing  thunder  peals 
Loud,  as  if  rush'd  along  the  shore 

An  army's  chariot-wheels ; 

Of  icebergs,  floating  o'er  the  main 

Or  fix'd  upon  the  coast. 
Like  glittering  citadel  or  fane, 

'Mid  the  bright  realms  of  frost ; 

Of  coral  rocks  from  waves  below 

In  steep  ascent  that  tower, 
And,  fraught  with  peril,  daily  grow, 

Form'd  by  an  insect's  power ; 

Of  sea-fires,  which  at  dead  of  night 

Shine  o'er  the  tides  afar, 
And  make  th'  expanse  of  ocean  bright 

As  heaven,  with  many  a  star. 

Oh  God !  thy  name  they  well  may  pra  w 

Who  to  the  deep  go  down. 
And  trace  the  wonders  of  thy  ways 

Where  rocks  and  billows  frown. 

If  glorious  be  that  awful  deep, 

No  human  power  can  bind, 
What  then  art  Thou,  who  bid'st  it  keep 

Within  its  bounds  confined  I 

Let  heaven  and  earth  in  praise  unite, 

Eternal  praise  to  Thee, 
Whose  word  can  rouse  the  tempest's  mijfct, 

r-  still  the  raging  sea  ! 


THE  THUNDER-STORM. 


DEEP,  fiery  clouds  p'ercast  the  sky, 
Dead  stillness  reigns  in  air, 

There  is  not  e'en  a  breeze  on  hifk, 
The  gossamer  to  bear. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


33J 


The  wcxxis  arc  hush'd,  the  waves  at  reel, 

The  lake  is  dark  and  still. 
Reflecting  on  its  shadowy  breast, 

Each  form  of  rock  and  hill. 

The  lime-leaf  waves  not  in  the  grove 

No  rose-tree  in  the  bower; 
The  birds  have  ceased  their  songs  of  lov« 

Awea  by  the  threatening  hour. 

T  is  noon ;— yet  Nature's  calm  profound 

S  •ems  as  at  midnight  deep  ; 
— B.  t  hark  I  what  peal  of  awful  sound 

Breaks  on  creation's  sleep 7 

The  thunder  bursts  !— its  rolling  might 

Seems  the  firm  hills  to  shake  ; 
And  in  terrific  splendour  bright, 

The  gather'd  lightnings  break. 

Yet  fear  not,  shrink  not  thou,  my  child! 

Though  by  the  bolt's  descent 
Were  the  tall  cliffs  in  ruins  piled, 

And  the  wide  forests  rent. 

Doth  not  thy  God  behold  thee  still, 

With  all-surveying  eye? 
Doth  not  his  power  all  nature  fill, 

Around,  beneath,  on  high  ? 

Know,  hailst  thou  eagle-pinions  free. 

To  track  the  realms  of  air, 
Thou  eouldst  not  reach  a  spot  where  He 

Would  not  be  with  thee  there  t 

In  the  wide  city's  peopled  towers, 

On  the  vast  ocean's  plains, 
'Midst  the  deep  woodland's  loneliest  bowers 

Alike  tli'  Almighty  reigns ! 

Then  fear  not,  though  the  angry  sky 
A  thousand  darts  should  cast ; — 

Why  should  we  tremble  e'en  to  die 
And  be  with  Him  at  last  1 


THE  BIRDS. 


Are  not  five  sparrows  gold  fur  two  farthings,  and  not 
•e  of  them  is  forgotten  before  God  1 tit.  Luke,  xii.  6. 


TRIBES  of  the  air !  whose  favour'd  race 
May  wander  through  the  realms  of  space, 

Free  guests  of  earth  and  sky ; 
In  form,  in  plumage,  and  in  song. 
What  gifts  of  nature  mark  your  tnrong 

With  bright  variety ' 

Nor  differ  less  your  forms,  your  flight, 
Your  dwellings  hid  from  hostile  sight, 

And  the  wild  haunts  ye  love; 
Birds  of  the  gentle  beak  !*  how  dear 
Your  wood-note,  to  the  wanderer's  ear, 

In  shadowy  vale  or  grove ! 

Far  other  scenes,  remote,  sublime, 
Where  swain  or  hunter  may  not  climb, 

The  mountain-eagle  seeks; 
Alone  he  reigns,  a  monarch  there, 
Scarce  will  the  chamois'  footstep  dare 

Ascend  big  Alpine  peaks. 

Others  there  are,  that  make  their  home 
Where  the  white  billows  roar  and  foam, 

Around  th'  o'erhanging  rock; 
Fearless  they  skim  the  angry  wave, 
Or,  sbeiter'd  in  their  sea -beat  cave, 

The  tempest's  fury  mock. 

Where  Afric's  burning  realnr  expands, 
The  cwlj.cn  haunts  the  desert  sands, 

Parch'd  by  the  Maze  of  day ; 
The  swan,  where  northern  rivers  glide 
Through  the  tall  reeds  that  fringe  their  tide, 

Floats  graceful  on  her  way. 


•  Th*  Italian*  nil  all  ii»»inf -bir<U,  Birdi  of  Uu  ftmllt  £•*!. 


The  condor,  where  the  Andes  tower. 
Spreads  his  broad  wing  of  pride  and  power 

And  many  a  storm  defies ; 
Bright  in  the  orient  realms  of  morn. 
All  beauty's  richest  hues  adorn 

The  Bird  of  Paradise. 

Some,  amidst  India'?  groves  of  palm, 
And  spicy  forests  breathing  balm. 

Weave  soft  their  pendent  nest ; 
Rome,  deep  in  western  wilds,  display 
Their  fairy  form  and  plumage  gay. 

In  rainbow  colours  drest. 

Others  no  varied  song  may  pour. 
May  boast  no  eagle-plume  to  soar, 

No  tints  of  light  may  wear; 
Yet,  know,  our  Heavenly  Father  guide* 
The  least  of  these,  and  well  provides 

For  each,  with  tenderest  care. 

Shall  He  not  then  thy  guardian  be? 
Will  not  his  aid  extend  to  tlieel 

Oh !  safely  may  Vt  thou  rest  I 
Trust  in  his  love,  and  e'en  should  pain, 
Should  sorrow  tempt  thee  to  complain. 

Know,  what  He  wills  is  best  1 


THE  SKY-LA.RK. 


THE  Sky-lark,  when  the  dews  of  morn 
Hang  tremulous  on  flower  and  thorn. 
And  violets  round  his  nest  exhale 
Their  fragrance  on  the  early  gale. 
To  the  first  sunbeam  spreads  bis  wingt, 
Buoyant  with  joy,  and  soars,  and  singa 

He  rests  not  on  the  leafy  spray. 

To  warble  his  exulting  lay, 

But  high  above  the  morning  clotJ 

Mounts,  in  triumphant  freedom  proud. 

And  swells,  when  nearest  to  the  sky, 

His  notes  of  sweetest  ecstasy 

Thus,  my  Creator !  thus  the  more 
My  spirit's  wing  to  Thee  can  soar, 
The  more  she  triumphs  to  behold 
Thy  love  in  all  thy  works  unfold. 
And  bids  her  hymns  of  rapture  be 
Most  giad,  when  rising  most  to  Thee. 


THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

WHEN  twilight's  gray  and  pensive  hour 
Brings  the  low  breeze,  and  shuts  the  flower 
And  bids  the  solitary  star 
Shine  in  pale  beauty  from  afar; 

When  gathering  shades  the  landscape  veil, 
And  peasants  seek  their  village-dale, 
And  mists  from  river- wave  arise. 
And  dew  in  every  blossom  lies; 

When  evening's  primrose  opes,  to  shed 
Soft  fragrance  round  her  grassy  bed ; 
When  glow-worms  in  the  wood-walk  light 
Their  lamp,  to  cheer  the  traveller's  sight; 

At  that  calm  hour,  so  still,  so  pale, 
Awakes  the  lonely  nightingale; 
And  from  a  hermitage  of  shade 
Fills  with  her  voice  the  forest-glade. 

And  sweeter  far  that  melting  voice, 
Than  all  which  through  the  day  rejoice  • 
And  still  shall  bard  and  wanderer  lovr 
The  twilight  music  of  the  grove. 

Father  in  Heaven!  oh!  thus,  when  day 
With  all  its  cares  hath  pass'd  away, 
And  silent  hours  waft  peace  on  earth, 
And  hush  the  louder  strains  of  mirth 


82* 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thus  may  sweet  songs  of  praise  and  prayer 
ToTbee  my  spirit's  offering  bear; 
Yon  star,  my  signal,  set  on  high, 
For  vesper-hymns  of  piety. 

80  may  thy  mercy  ar^J  ihy  power 
Protect  me  through  the  midnight  hour; 
And  balmy  sleep  and  visions  blest 
Smile  on  thy  servant's  bed  of  teal.  . 


THE  NORTHERN  SPRING. 


WHEN  the  soft  breath  of  Spring  goes  forth 
Par  o'er  the  mountains  of  the  North, 
How  soon  those  wastes  of  dazzling  snow 
With  life,  and  bloom,  and  beauty  glow! 

Then  bursts  the  verdure  of  the  plains, 
Then  break  the  streams  from  icy  chains; 
And  the  glad  rein-deer  seeks  no  more 
Amidst  deep  snows  his  mossy  store. 

Then  the  dark  pine-wood's  boughs  are  seen 
Array'd  in  tints  of  living  green; 
And  roses,  in  their  brightest  dyes, 
By  Lapland's  founts  and  lakes  arise. 

Thus,  in  a  moment,  from  the  gloom 
And  the  cold  fetters  of  the  tomb, 
Thus  shall  the  blest  Redeemer's  voice 
Call  firth  his  servants  to  rejoice. 

For  He,  whose  word  is  truth,  hath  said, 
His  power  to  life  shall  wake  the  dead. 
And  summon  those  he  loves,  on  high. 
To  " put  on  immortality  !" 

Then,  all  its  transient  sufferings  o'er, 
On  wings  of  light  the  soul  shall  soar 
Exulting,  to  that  blest  abode. 
Where  tears  of  sorrow  never  flow'd. 


PARAPHRASE  OF  PSALM  CXLVIIL 


Praise  ye  the  Lord.    Praise  ye  the  Lord  from  the  hea- 
rsna :  praise  him  in  the  heights. 


PRAISE  ye  the  Lord  1  on  every  height 

Songs  to  his  glory  raise  1 
Ye  angel-hosts,  ye  stars  of  light, 

Join  in  immortal  praise  1 

Oh !  heaven  of  heavens !  let  praise  far-swelling 

From  all  your  orbs  be  sent! 
Join  in  the  strain,  ye  waters,  dwelling 

Above  the  firmament  1 

For  His  the  word  which  gave  you  birth, 

And  majesty  and  might ; 
Praise  to  the  Highest  from  the  earth. 

And  let  the  deeps  unite  I 

Oh  !  fire  and  vapour,  hail  and  snow, 

Ye  servants  of  His  will ; 
Oh  !  stormy  winds,  that  only  blow 

His  mandates  to  fulfil ; 

Mountains  and  rocks,  to  heaven  that  rise; 

Fair  cedars  of  the  wood; 
Creatures  of  life,  that  wing  the  skies. 

Or  track  the  plains  for  food  ; 

Judges  of  nations ;  kings,  whose  hand 

Waves  the  proud  sceptre  high ; 
Oh!  youths  and  virgins  of  the  land. 

Oil !  age  and  infancy ; 

Praise  ye  His  name,  to  whom  alone 

AM  homage  should  be  given  ; 
Whose  glory  frori  th'  eternal  throne 

Spreads  wide  c  er  earth  and  heaven  I 


CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


O  lovely  voices  of  the  sky. 

That  hymn'd  the  Saviour's  birth  1 
Are  ye  not  singing  stii   on  high, 
Ye  that  sang,  "  Peace  on  earth  V 
To  us  yet  s]»';ik  the  strains 

Wherewith,  in  days  gone  by 
Ye  liluss'cl  the  Syrian  swains, 
O  voices  of  the  sky  I 

O  clear  and  shining  light,  whose  btane 

That  hour  Heaven's  glory  shed 
Around  the  palms,  and  o'er  the  streams, 
And  on  the  Shepherds'  head ; 

Be  near,  through  life  and  death. 

As  in  that  holiest  night 
Of  Hope,  and  Joy,  and  Faith, 
O  clear  and  shining  light  I 

O  star  which  led  to  Him,  whose  lore 
Brought  down  man's  ransom  free  ; 
Where  art  thou  ?— 'Midst  the  hosts  above. 
May  we  still  gaze  on  thee  ?— 
In  heaven  thou  art  not  set, 

Thy  rays  earth  might  not  dim- 
Send  them  to  guide  us  yet  t 
O  star  which  led  to  Him  ! 


:HRIST  WALKING  ON  THE  WATER 


FEIR  was  within  the  tossing  bark, 
When  stormy  winds  grew  loud, 

And  waves  came  rolling  high  and  dark, 
And  the  tall  mast  was  bow'd. 

And  men  stood  breathless  in  their  dread. 

And  baffled  in  their  skill— 
But  One  was  there,  who  rose,  and  said 

To  the  wild  sea—  be  still  I 

And  the  wind  ceased— it  ceased!— that  wort 
Pass'd  through  the  gloomy  sky ; 

The  troubled  billows  knew  their  Lord, 
And  fell  beneath  His  eye. 

And  slumber  settled  on  the  deep, 

And  silence  on  the  blast ; 
They  sank,  as  flowers  that  fold  to  sleep 

When  sultry  day  is  past. 

Oh !  thou,  that  in  its  wildest  hour 

Didst  rule  the  tempest's  mood, 
Send  thy  meek  spirit  forth  in  power 

Soft  on  our  souls  to  brood. 

Thou  that  didst  bow  the  billow's  pride 

Thy  mandate  to  fulfil, 
Oh  !  speak  to  passion's  raging  tide, 

Speak,  and  say,  "  Peace,  be  still .'" 


A  FATHER  READING  THE  BIBLE. 


T  WAS  early  Day,  and  sunlight  stream'd 

Soft  through  a  quiet  room. 
That  hush'd,  hut  not  forsaken,  seem'd, 

Still,  but  with  naught  of  gloom. 
For  there,  serene  in  happy  age. 

Whose  hope  is  from  above, 
A  Father  communed  with  the  page 

Of  Heaven's  recorded  love. 


AS  ii  us  snrine  were  there  I 
But  oh  !  that  patriarch's  aspect  shone 

With  something  lovelier  far. 
A  radiance  all  the  spirit's  own. 

Caught  not  from  sun  or  star. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


327 


Some  word  of  life  e'en  then  had  met 

Hia  calm,  benignant  eye, 
Borne  ancient  promise,  breathing  yet 

Of  Immortality  : 
Some  Martyr's  prayer,  wherein  the  glow 

Of  quenchless  faith  survives : 
For  every  feature  said — "I  knout 

That  my  Redeemer  lives  I" 

And  silent  stood  his  children  by, 

Hushing  their  very  breath, 
Before  the  solemn  sanctity 

Of  thoughts  o'ersweeping  death. 
Bi lent— yet  did  not  each  young  breast 

With  love  and  reverence  melt  7 
Oh  !  blest  be  those  fair  girls,  and  blest 

That  home  where  God  is  felt  I 


A  DIRGE, 

>ALM  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 
Young  spirit !  rest  thee  now  I 

Ev'n  while  with  us  thy  footstep  trod, 
His  seal  was  on  thy  brow. 

Dust,  to  its  narrow  house  beneath  I 

Soul,  to  its  place  on  high  I 
They  that  have  seen  thy  look  in  death, 

No  more  may  fear  to  die. 

Lone  are  the  paths,  and  sad  the  bowers 
Whence  thy  meek  smile  is  gone  ; 

But  oh !  a  brighter  home  than  ours. 
In  heaven,  is  now  thine  own. 


THE  CHILD'S  FIRST  GRIEF 


"  On  t  call  my  brother  back  to  me  t 

I  cannot  play  alone  ; 
The  summer  comes  with  flower  and  bee— 

Where  is  my  brother  gone  ? 

The  butterfly  is  glancing  bright 

Across  the  sunbeam's  track ; 
I  care  not  now  to  chase  its  flight  — 

Oh  I  call  my  brother  back  1 

The  flowers  run  wild — the  flowers  we  »ow'd 
Around  our  garden  tree ; 

Our  rine  is  drooping  with  its  load—- 
Oh I  call  him  back  to  me  1" 

"  He  would  not  hear  thy  voice,  fair  ehild; 

He  may  not  come  to  thee  ; 
The  face  that  once  like  spring-time  smiled 

On  earth  no  more  thou'lt  see. 

M  A  rose's  brief  bright  life  of  joy, 

Such  unto  him  was  given  ; 
Go— thou  must  play  alone,  my  boy  I 

Thy  brother  is  in  heaven." 

"  And  has  he  left  his  birds  and  flowers ; 

And  must  I  call  in  vain  7 
And  through  the  long,  long  summer  noun. 

Will  he  not  come  again  1 

And  by  the  brook  and  in  the  glade 

Are  all  our  wanderings  o'er  1 
Oh  I  while  my  brother  with  me  play'd, 

Would  I  had  loved  him  more  I" 


EPITAPH 

OVER   THE  GRAVE  OP  TWO  BROTHERS 
A  CHILD  AND  A  YOUTH. 


THOU,  that  canst  gaze  upon  thine  own  fair  boy, 

And  hear  his  prayer's  low  murmur  at  thy  knee, 
And  o'er  his  slumber  bend  in  breathless  joy 


Come  to  this  tomb  1  it  hath  a  votce  for  thee  ! 
Pray !— thou  art  blest— ask  strength  for  sorrow'* 
hour. 

Love,  deep  as  thine,  lays  here  its  broken  flower 
Thou  that  art  gathering  from  the  smile  of  youth. 

Thy  thousand  hopes — rejoicing  to  behold, 
All  the  heart's  depths  before  thee  bright  with  truth. 

All  the  mind's  treasure  silently  unfold  ; 
Look  on  this  tomb ! — for  thee,  too,  speaks  the  grav« 
Where  God  hath  seal'd  the  fount  of  hope  he  nave. 


BIRTH-DAY  LINES 
TO  A  YOUNG  CHILD  IN  AUTUMN. 

WHERE  sucks  the  bee  now?— Summer  is  flying, 
Leaves  on  the  grass-plot  faded  are  lying  ; 
Violets  are  gone  from  their  grassy  dell, 
With  the  cowslip-cups,  where  the  fairies  dwell ; 
The  rose  from  the  garden  hath  pass'd  away — 
Yet  happy,  fair  boy  1  is  thy  natal  day. 

For  love  bids  it  welcome,  the  love  which  hath 

smiled 

Ever  around  thee,  my  gentle  child ! 
Watching  thy  footsteps,  and  guarding  thy  bed. 
And  pouring  out  joy  on  thy  sunny  head. 
Roses  may  vanish,  but  this  will  stay — 
Happy  aud  bright  is  thy  natal  day. 


ON  A  SIMILAR  OCCASION. 

THOO  wak'st  from  happy  sleep,  to  play 
With  bounding  heart,  my  boy  I 

Before  thee  lies  a  long  bright  day 
Of  summer  and  of  jjy. 

Thou  hast  no  heavy  thought  or  dream. 

To  cloud  thy  fearless  eye ; — 
Long  be  it  thus— life's  early  stream 

Should  still  reflect  the  sky. 

Yet  ere  the  cares  of  life  lie  dim 

On  thy  young  spirit's  wings, 
Now  in  thy  morn  forget  not  Him 

From  whom  each  pure  thought  spring*  I 

So  in  the  onward  vale  of  tears, 

Where'er  thy  path  may  be. 
When  strength  hath  bow'd  to  evil  years— 

He  will  remember  thee. 


HYMN  BY  THE  SICK  BED  OF  A  MOTHER 


FATHER  1  that  in  the  olive  shade 
When  the  dark  hour  came  on, 
Di  Jit,  with  a  breath  of  heavenly  aid, 
Strengthen  thy  Son ; 

Oh  t  by  the  anguish  of  that  night. 

Send  us  down  blest  relief; 
Or  to  the  chasten 'd,  let  thy  might 
Hallow  this  grief  I 

And  Thou,  that  when  the  starry  iky 

Saw  the  dread  strife  begun, 
Didst  leach  adoringfaith  to  cry, 

"  Thy  will  be  done  1" 

By  thy  meek  spirit,  Thou,  of  all 

That  e'er  have  mourn'd  the  chief— 
Thoi  Saviour  I  if  the  stroke  mutt  fall, 
Halliw  this  grief  I 


MISCELLANEOUS  PIECES. 


THE  TREASURES  OF  THE   DEEP 


WHAT  hidest  thou  in  thy  treasure-caves  and  cells 
Thou  hollow-sounding  and  mysterious  main!  — 
Pale  glistening  pearls,  and  rainbow-colour'd  shells. 
Bright  things  which  gleam'd  unreck'd-of,  and  in 

vain ! — 

Keep,  keep  thy  riches,  melancholy  sea ! 
We  ask  not  such  from  thee 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  morel— what  wealth 

untold, 
Far  down,  and  shining  through  their  still  -vess 

lies! 

Thou  hast  the  starry  gems,  the  burning  gold. 
Won  from  ten  thousand  royal  argosies ! — 
Bweep  o'er  thy  spoils,  thou  wild  and  wrathful 
main  !— 

Earth  claims  not  these  again. 

Yet  more,  the  depths  have  more ! — thy  waves  have 

roll'd 

Above  the  cities  of  a  world  gone  by ! 
Band  hath  flll'd  up  the  palaces  of  old, 

Sea-weed  o'ergrown  the  halls  of  revelry.— 
Dash  o'er  them,  ocean  !  in  thy  scornful  play! 
Man  yields  t  -em  to  decay. 

Yet  more  !  the  billows  and  the  depths  have  more . 

High  hearts  and  brave  are  gather'd  to  thy  breast  t 
They  hear  not  now  the  booming  waters  roar, 

The  battle-thunders  will  not  break  their  rest.— 
Keep  thy  red  gold  and  gems,  thou  stormy  grave  I 
Give  back  the  true  and  brave  I 

Give  back  the  lost  and  lovely !— those  for  whom 

The  place  was  kept  at  board  and  hearth  so  long! 
The  prayer  went  up  through  midnight's  breathless 

gloom, 

And  the  vain  yearning  woke  'midst  festal  song ! 
Hold  fast  thy  buried  isles,  thy  towers  o'erthrown— 
But  all  is  not  thine  own. 

To  thee  the  love  of  woman  hath  gone  down. 

Dark  flow  thy  tides  o'er  manhood's  noble  head, 
O'er  youth's  bright  locks,  and  beauty's  flower} 

crown. 

Yet  must  thou  hear  a  voice— Restore  the  dead ! 
Earth  shall  reclaim  her  precious  .things  from  thee 
I>  istore  the  dead,  thou  sea  I 


THE  CRUSADER'S  RETURN 


AIM  t  the  mother  that  him  ban, 
If  ite  had  been  in  oraenec  tban 

ran 


In  K-  —*  etaeki  and  mnbnnt  hair, 

v«  had  not  known  her  child 


REST,  pilgrim,  rest  !—  thou'rt  from  the  Syrian  land 

Tnou'rt  from  the  wild  and  wondrous  east,  I  knov 
By  the  long-wither'd  palm-branch  in  thy  hand, 

And  by  the  darkness  of  thy  sunburnt  brow. 
Alas  !  the  bright,  the  beautiful,  who  pan, 

So  full  of  hope,  for  that  far  country's  bourne  1 
Alas!  the  weary  and  the  changed  in  heart, 

And  dimm'd  in  aspect,  who  like  thee  return  ! 

Thou'rt  faint—  stay,  rest  thee  from  thy  toils  at  list- 

Through  the  high  chestnuts  lightly  plays  the 

breeze, 
The  stars  gleam  out,  the  Jive  hour  is  pass'd, 

The  sailor's  hymn  hath  died  along  the  seas. 
Thou'rt  faint  and  worn—  hear'st  thou  the  fountain 
welling 

By  the  gray  pillars  of  yon  ruin'd  shrine  ? 
Seest  thou  the  dewy  grapes,  before  thee  swelling  ? 

—  He  that  hath  left  me  train'd  that  loaded  vine  I 

He  was  a  child  when  thus  the  bower  he  wove, 

(Oh!  hath  a  day  fled  since  hi?  childhood's  time  ?) 
That  I  might  sit  and  hear  the  sound  I  love, 

Beneath  its  shade—  the  convent's  vesper  -chime. 
And  sit  thou  there  !—  for  he  was  gentle  ever, 

With  his  glad  voice  he  would  have  welcomed 

thee, 

And  brought  fresh  fruits  to  cool  thy  parch'd  lips' 
fever  — 

There  in  his  place  thou'rt  resting—  where  is  he  ? 

[f  I  could  hear  that  laughing  voice  again, 

But  once  again  !—  how  oft  it  wanders  by, 
In  the  still  hours,  like  some  remeniber'd  strain, 

Troubling  the  heart  with  its  wild  melody  !— 
Thou  hast  seen  much,  tired  pilgrim  !  hast  thou  seen 

In  that  far  land,  the  chosen  land  of  yore, 
A  youth  —  my  Guido—  with  the  fiery  main, 

And  the  dark  eye  of  this  Italian  shore? 

The  dark,  clear,  lightning  eyel  —  on  Heaven  and 
earth 

It  smiled—  as  if  man  were  not  dust  it  smiled  ! 
The  very  air  seem'd  kindling  with  his  mirth, 

And  I—  my  heart  grew  young  before  my  child  1 
My  blessed  child  !—  I  had  but  him—  yet  he 

Fill'd  all  my  home  ev'n  with  o'erflowing  joy, 
Sweet  laughter,  and  wild  song,  and  footstep  free  — 

Where  is  he  now  1  —  my  pride,  my  flower,  my  boy  1 

His  sunny  childhood  melted  from  my  sight, 
Like  a  spring  dew-drop—then  his  forehead  wore 

A  prouder  look—  his  eye  a  keener  light— 
I  knew  these  woods  might  be  bin  world  no  mor« 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


He  loved  me— but  he  left  me!— thus  they  go, 
Whom    we   have   rear'd,  watch'd,   liless'd,  too 
much  adored ! 

He  heard  the  trumpet  of  the  Red-Cross  blow. 
And  bounded  f'om  me  with  his  father's  sword  I 

Thou  weep'st— I  tremble— thou  hast  seen  the  slain 
Pressing  a  bloody  turf;  the  young  and  fair. 

With  their  pale  beauty  strewing  o'er  the  plain 
Where  hosts  have  met— speak!  answer!— was 
he  there  ? 

Oh !  hath  his  smile  departed  ?— Could  the  grave 
Shut  o'oj-  those  bursts  of  bright  and  tameless 

glee  ?— 

3  !  I  shall  yet  behold  his  dark  locks  wave- 
That  took  gh  38  hope— I  knew  it  could  not  be ! 

Still  weep'st  thou,  wanderer?— some  fond  mother'* 
glance 

O'er  thee  too  brooded  in  thine  early  years— 
Think'st  thou  of  her,  whose  gentle  eye  perchance 

Bathed  all  thy  faded  hair  with  parting  tears  ? 
Speak,  for  thy  tears  disturb  me  !— what  art  thou  1 

Why  dost  thou  hide  thy  face,  yet  weeping  on  1 
Look  up !— oh !  is  it— that  wan  cheek  and  brow  1— 

Is  it— alas  I  yet  joy  1— my  son,  my  son  1 


BRING   FLOWERS 

BRING  flowers,  young  flowers,  for  the  festal  board, 
To  wreathe  the  cup  ere  the  wine  is  pour'd; 
Bring  flowers  1  they  are  springing  in  wood  and  vale 
Their  breath  floats  out  on  the  southern  gale, 
And   the  touch  of  the  sunbeam  hath  waked  the 

rose, 
To  deck  the  ball  wiiere  the  bright  wine  flows. 

Bring  flowers  to  strew  in  the  conqueror's  path- 
He  hath  shaken  thrones  with  his  stormy  wrath! 
He  comes  with  the  spoils  of  nations  back, 
The  vines  lie  crush'd  in  his  chariot's  track, 
The  turf  looks  red  where  he  won  the  day — 
Bring  flowers  to  die  in  the  conqueror's  wayl 


Bring  flowers  to  the  captive's  lonely  cell, 
They  have  tales  of  the  joyous  woods  to  tell ; 


Bring  flowers,  fresh  flowers,  for  the  bride  to  wear 
They  were  born  to  blush  in  her  shining  hair. 
She  is  leaving  the  home  of  her  childhood's  mirth 
She  hath  bid  farewell  to  her  father's  hearth, 
Her  place  is  now  by  another's  side — 
Bring  flowers  for  the  locks  of  the  fair  young  bride 

Bring  flowers,  pale  flowers,  o'er  the  bier  to  shed, 

A  crown  for  the  brow  of  the  early  dead  I 

For  this  through  its  leaves  hath  the  white  rose 

burst, 

For  this  in  the  woods  was  the  violet  nursed ) 
Though  tiiey  smile  in  vain  for  what  once  was  ours, 
fhey  are  love's  last  gift— bring  ye  flowers,  pale 

flowers . 

Bring  flowers  to  the  ihrine  where  we  kneel  in 

prayer, 

They  are  nature's  offering,  their  place  is  there  I 
They  speak  of  hope  to  the  fainting  heart, 
With  a  voice  of  promise  they  come  and  part, 
They  sleep  in  dust  through  the  wintry  hours. 
The)   break  forth  in  glory-  bring  flowers,  bright 


THEKLA'S  SONG;  OR  THE  VOICE  OF 
A  SPIRIT. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  SCHILLER. 


Thin  song  is  said  to  have  been  composed  by  Schiller 
in  answer  to  the  inquiries  of  his  friends  respecting  the 
fate  of  Thfkla,  whose  beautiful  character  is  withdrawn 
from  the  tragedy  of  "  Wallenstein's  Death,"  after  her 
resolution  to  visit  the  grave  of  her  lover  is  made  known. 

"  Ti»  not  merely 

The  human  being's  pride  that  peoples  spice 
With  life  and  mystical  predominance ; 
Since  likewise  for  the  stricken  heart  of  low 
This  visible  nature,  and  this  common  world, 
Are  all  too  narrow." 

Coleridge's  Translation  of  H'ailmstein. 

ASK'ST  thou  my  home  ?— my  pathway  wouldst  thou 
know. 

When  from  thine  eye  my  floating  shadow  pass'dl 
Was  not  my  work  fulflll'd  and  closed  below  ? 

Had  I  not  lived  and  loved  ?— my  lot  was  cast. 

Wouldst  thou  ask  where  the  nightingale  is  gone. 
That  melting  into  song  her  soul  away. 

Gave  the  spring-breeze  what  witch'd  thee  in  itt 

tone  ?— 
But  while  she  loved,  she  lived,  in  that  deep  lay  I 

Think'st  thou  my  heart  its  lost  one  hath  not 

found?— 

Yes '  we  are  one,  oh  I  trust  me,  we  have  met. 
Where  naught  again  may  part  what  love  hath 

bound, 
Where  fads  no  tear,  and  whispers  no  regret. 

There  shall  thou  find  us,  there  with  us  be  blest, 
If  as  our  love  thy  love  is  pure  and  true  1 

There  dwells  my  father,*  sinless  and  at  rest, 
Where  the  fierce  murderer  may  no  more  pursue 

And  well  he  feels,  no  error  of  the  dust 
Drew  to  the  stars  of  Heaven  his  mortal  ken. 

There  it  is  with  us,  ev'n  as  is  our  trust, 
He  that  believes,  is  near  the  holy  then. 

There  shall  each  feeling  beautiful  and  high. 
Keep  the  sweet  promise  of  its  earthly  day  ;— 

Oh !  fear  thou  not  to  dream  with  waking  eye! 
There  lies  deep  meaning  oft  in  childish  play. 


THE  REVELLERS. 


RIHO,  joyous  chords !— ring  out  again  I 

A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain ! 

They  are  here— the  fair  face  and  the  careless  heart 

And  stars  shall  wane  ere  the  mirthful  part. — 

But  I  met  a  dimly  mournful  glance, 

In  a  sudden  turn  of  the  flying  dance; 

I  heard  the  tone  of  a  heavy  sigh. 

In  a  pause  of  the  thrilling  melody  ! 

And  it  is  not  well  that  woe  should  breathe 

On  the  bright  spring-flowers  of  the  festal  wreath  !— 

Ye  that  to  thought  or  to  grief  belong, 

Leave,  leave  the  hall  of  song  1 

Ring,  Joyous  chords!— but  who  art  thou 

With  the  shadowy  locks  o'er  thy  pale  young  brow 

And  the  world  of  dreamy  gloom  that  lies 

In  the  misty  depths  of  thy  soft  dark  eyes  ? 

Thou  hast  loved,  fair  girl !  thou  hast  loved  too  well  I 

Thou  art  mourning  now  o'er  a  broken  spell, 

Thou  hast  pour'd  thy  heart's  rich  treasures  forth. 

And  art  unrepaid  for  their  priceless  worth  I 

Mourn  on  — yet  come  thou  not  here  the  while, 

It  is  but  a  pain  to  see  thee  smile ! 


SSO 


HEiMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


There  U  not  a  tone  in  our  songs  for  thee— 
Home  with  thy  sorrows  flee  I 

Sting,  Joyous  chords!— ring  out  again!— 
But  what  dost  thou  with  the  Revel's  train  7 
A  silvery  voice  through  the  soft  air  floats, 
But  thou  hast  no  part  in  the  gladdening  notes: 
There  are  bright  young  faces  that  pass  thee  by. 
But  they  fix  no  glance  of  thy  wandering  eye  I 
Away!  there  's  a*  void  in  thy  yearning  breast, 
Thou  weary  man !  wilt  thou  here  find  rest  ? 
\ way!  for  thy  thou.'lits  from  the  scene  have  fled, 
Vnd  the  love  of  tin  spirit  is  with  the  dead ! 
Thou  art  but  more  lone  'midst  the  sounds  of 
mirth- 
Back  to  thy  silent  hearth  I 

Ring,  joyous  chorda!— ring  forth  again  I 

A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain  ! — 

But  thou,  though  a  reckless  mien  be  thine, 

And  thy  cup  be  crown'd  with  the  foaming  wine, 

By  the  fitful  bursts  of  thy  laughter  loud, 

By  thine  eye's  quick  flash  through  its  troubled 

cloud, 

I  know  thee  !— it  is  but  the  wakeful  fear 
Of  a  haunted  bosom  that  brings  thee  here  I 
I  know  thee  I— thou  fearest  the  solemn  night, 
With  her  piercing  stars  and  her  deep  wind's  might! 
There's   a  tone   in   her  voice  which  thou  fain 

would'st  shun, 

For  it  asks  what  the  secret  soul  hath  done  I 
And  thou  —  there 's  a  dark  weight  on  thine  — 

away ! — 

Back  to  thy  home,  and  pray ! 

Ring,  joyous  chords!— ring  out  again ! 
A  swifter  still,  and  a  wilder  strain ! 
And  bring  fresh  wreaths ! — we  will  banish  al 
Save  the  free  in  heart  from  our  festive  hall. 
On !  through  the  maze  of  the  fleet  dance,  on ! 
But  where  are  the  young  and  the  lovely  ?— gone! 
Where  are  the  brows  with  the  red-rose  crown'd, 
And  the  floating  forms  with  the  bright  zone  bound? 
And  the  waving  locks  and  the  flying  feet, 
That  still  should  be  where  the  mirthful  meet ! — 
They  are  gone — they  are  fled — they  are  parted  all— 
Alas  I  the  forsaken  hall  I 


THE  CONQUEROR'S  SLEEP 


SLEEP,  'midst  thy  banners  furl'dl 
Yes  I  thou  art  there,  upon  thy  buckler  lying, 
With  the  soft  wind  unfelt  around  thee  sighing, 
Thou  chief  of  hosts,  whose  trumpet  shakes  the 

world ! 

Sleep  while  the  babe  sleeps  on  its  mother's  breast— 
Oh  !  strong  is  night — for  thou  too  art  at  rest ! 

Stillness  hath  smooth'd  thy  brow, 
And  now  might  love  keep  timid  vigils  by  thee, 
Now  might  the  foe  with  stealthy  foot  draw  nigh 

thee, 

Alike  unconscious  and  defenceless  thou ! 
Tread  lightly,  watchers ! — now  the  field  is  won. 
Break  not  the  rest  of  nature's  weary  son  I 

Perchance  some  lovely  dream 
Back  from  the  stormy  fight  thy  soul  is  bearing, 
To  the  green  places  of  thy  boyish  daring, 
And  all  the  windings  of  thy  native  stream ; — 
Why,  this  were  joy! — upon  the  tented  plain, 
Dream  on,  thou  Conqueror !— be  a  child  again  I 

But  thou  wilt  wake  at  morn, 
With  thy  strong  passions  to  the  conflict  leaping, 
And  thy  dark,  troubled  thoughts  all  earth  o'er- 

sweeping ; 

So  wilt  thou  rise,  oh !  thou  of  woman  born  t 
And  put  thy  terrors  on,  till  noun  may  dare 
Look  upon  thee— the  tired  one,  slumbering  there  1 

Why,  so  the  peasant  sleeps 
Beneath  his  vine  !  —  and  man  must  kneel  before 
thee, 


And  for  his  birthright  vainly  still  implore  thee  !— 
Shalt  thou  be  stay'd  because  thy  brother  weeps  ? 
Wake  I  and  forget  that  'midst  a  dreaming  world, 
Thuu  hast  lain  thus,  with  all  thy  banners  furl'd ' 

Forget  that  thou,  ev'n  thou. 
Hast  feebly  shi  ver'd  when  the  wind  pass'd  o'er  thee, 
And  sunk  to  rest  upon  the  earth  which  bore  thee. 
And  felt  the  night-dew  chill  thy  fever'd  brow ! 
Wake  with  the  trumpet,  with  the  spear  press  on  !— 
Yet  shall  the  dust  take  home  its  mortal  sou. 


OUR  LADY'S  WELL.* 


FOONT  of  the  woods !  thou  art  hid  no  more, 
From  Heaven's  clear  eye,  as  in  time  of  yore  ! 
For  the  roof  hath  sunk  from  thy  mossy  walls, 
And  the  sun's  free  glance  on  thy  slumber  falls ; 
And  the  dim  tree-shadows  across  thee  pass, 
As  the  boughs  are  sway'd  o'er  thy  silvery  glass ; 
And  the  reddening  leaves  to  thy  breast  are  blown, 
When  the  autumn  wind  hath  a  stormy  tone; 
And  thy  bubbles  rise  to  the  flashing  rain — 
Bright  Fount !  thou  art  nature's  own  again  I 
Fount  of  the  vale!  thou  art  sought  no  more 
By  the  pilgrim's  foot,  as  in  time  of  yore, 
When  he  came  from  afar,  his  beads  to  tell. 
And  to  chant  his  hymn  at  Our  Lady's  Well. 
There  is  heard  no  Jive  through  thy  bowers, 
Thou  art  gleaming  lone  'midst  thy  water-flowers . 
But  the  herd  may  drink  from  thy  gushing  wave. 
And  there  may  the  reaper  his  forehead  lave, 
And  the  woodman  seeks  thee  not  in  vain — 
Bright  fount  I  thou  art  Nature's  own  again  I 

Fount  of  the  Virgin's  niin'd  shrine ! 
A  voice  that  speaks  of  the  past  is  thine  t 
It  mingles  the  tone  of  a  thoughtful  sigh, 
With  the  notes  that  ring  through  the  laughing  sky 
'Midst  the  mirthful  song  of  the  summer-bird, 
And  the  sound  of  the  breeze,  it  will  yet  be  heard  ! 
Why  is  it  that  thus  we  may  gaze  on  thee, 
To  the  brilliant  sunshine  sparkling  free? — 
'Tis  that  all  on  earth  is  of  Time's  domain- 
lie  hath  made  thee  Nature's  own  again  1 

Fount  of  the  chapel  with  ages  gray ! 
Thou  art  springing  freshly  amidst  decay  ! 
Thy  rites  are  closed,  and  thy  cross  lies  low, 
And  the  changeful  hours  breathe  o'er  thee  now  I 
Yet  if  at  thine  altar  one  holy  thought 
In  man's  deep  spirit  of  old  hath  wrought ;    • 
If  peace  to  the  mourner  hath  here  been  given, 
Or  prayer,  from  a  chasten'd  heart,  to  Heaven, 
Be  the  spot  still  hallovv'd  while  Time  shall  reign, 
Who  hath  made  thee  Nature's  own  again ! 


THE  PARTING  OF  SUMMER, 


THOD'RT  bearing  hence  thy  roses, 

Glad  Summer,  fare  thee  well  1 
Thou'rt  singing  thy  last  melodies 

In  every  wood  and  dell. 

But  ere  the  golden  sunset 

Of  thy  latest  lingering  day, 
Oh !  tell  me,  o'er  this  chequer'd  earth. 

How  hast  thou  pass'd  away  ? 

Brightly,  sweet  Summer  1  brightly 

Thine  hours  have  floated  by. 
To  the  joyous  birds  of  the  woodland  bough*. 

The  rangers  of  the  sky. 

And  brightly  in  the  forests, 
To  the  wild  deer  wandering  freer 

And  brightly,  'midst  the  garden  flowers, 
Is  the  happy  murmuring  bee : 


•  A  beautiful  iprinx  in  the  woods  near  St.  Ataph,  formerly  to- 
ured in  with  a  chapel,  now  in  ruins.  It  wu  dedicated  to  the  Vir 
fa,  and,  according  to  Pennant,  much  the  retort  of  pilgrim*. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


331 


But  bow  to  human  bosoms. 

With  all  their  hopes  and  fears. 
And  thoughts  that  make  them  eagle-wings, 

To  pierce  the  unborn  years? 

Sweet  Summer!  to  the  capti  yj 
Thou  hast  flown  in  burning  dreams 

Of  the  woods,  with  all  their  whispering  leave* 
And  the  blue  rejoicing  streams  1 — 

To  the  wasted  and  the  weary 

On  the  bed  of  sickness  bound, 
In  swift  delirious  fantasies, 

That  changed  with  every  sound  '<— 

To  the  sailor  on  the  billows, 

In  longings,  wild  and  vain, 
For  the  gushing  founts  and  breezy  hills. 

And  the  homes  of  earth  again  I 

And  unto  me,  glad  Summer  1 

How  hast  thou  flown  to  me  1 
.Wwch.-iiiiless  footstep  naught  hath  kept 

From  thy  haunts  of  song  and  glee. 

Thou  hast  flown  in  wayward  visions. 

In  memories  of  the  dead — 
In  shadows,  from  a  troubled  heart, 

O'er  thy  sunny  pathway  shed : 

In  brief  and  sudden  strivings, 

To  fling  a  weight  aside — 
'Midst  these  thy  melodies  have  ceased 

And  all  thy  roses  died. 

But,  ohl  thou  gentle  Summer! 

If  I  greet  thy  flowers  once  more. 
Bring  me  again  the  buoyancy 

Wherewith  my  soul  should  soar  I 

Give  me  to  hail  thy  sunshine, 

With  song  and  spirit  free; 
Or  in  a  purer  air  than  this. 

May  that  next  meeting  be ! 


THE  SONGS  OF  OUR  FATHERS. 


ting  aloud 


Old  Songs,  the  precious  Mu 


:  of  the  Heart. 

Wordnuorth. 


SINO  them  upon  the  sunny  hills. 

When  days  are  long  and  bright, 
And  the  blue  gleam  of  shining  rills 

Is  loveliest  to  the  sight  1 
Sing  them  along  the  misty  moor. 

Where  ancient  hunters  roved, 
And  swell  them  through  the  torrent's  roar, 

The  songs  our  fathers  loved  I 

The  songs  their  souls  rejoiced  to  hear 

When  harps  were  in  the  hall, 
And  each  proud  note  made  lance  and  spent 

Thrill  on  the  banner'd  wall : 
The  songs  that  through  our  valleys  green, 

Sent  on  from  age  to  age. 
Like  his  own  river's  voice,  have  been 

The  peasant's  heritage. 

The  reaper  sings  them  when  the  vale 

Is  fill'd  with  plumy  sheaves  : 
The  woodman,  by  the  starlight  pale, 

Cheer'd  homeward  through  the  leaves: 
And  unto  them  the  glancing  oars 

A  joyous  measure  keep, 
Where  the  dark  rocks  that  crest  our  shores 

Dash  hack  the  foaming  deep. 

Bo  let  it  be!— a  light  they  shed 

O'er  each  old  fount  and  grove 
4  memory  of  the  gentle  dead, 

A  lingering  spell  of  love. 
Murmuring  the  names  of  mighty  men. 

They  bid  our  streams  roll  on, 
And  link  high  thoughts  to  every  glen 

V/here  valiant  deeds  were  done. 


Teach  them  your  children  round  the  hearth 

When  evening-fires  burn  clear. 
And  in  the  fields  of  harvest-mirth, 

And  on  the  hills  of  deer : 
So  shall  each  unforgotten  word, 

When  far  those  loved  ones  roam, 
Call  back  the  hearts  which  once  it  stirr'd. 

To  childhood's  holy  home. 

The  green  woods  of  their  native  land 

Shall  whisper  in  •h»>  strain, 
The  voices  of  their  Household  band. 

Shall  breathe  their  names  again ; 
The  heathery  heights  in  vision  rise 

Where,  like  the  stag,  they  roved— 
Sing  to  your  sons  those  melodies, 

The  songs  your  fathers  loved  I 


THE  WORLD  IN  THE  OPEN  AIR 


COME,  while  in  freshness  and  dew  it  lies, 
To  the  world  that  is  under  the  free,  blue  skies 
Leave  ye  man's  home,  and  forget  his  care- 
There  breathes  no  sigh  on  the  day-spring's  air 

Come  to  the  woods  in  whose  mossy  dells, 
A  light  all  made  for  the  poet  dwells  ; 
A  light,  colour'd  softly  by  tender  leaves, 
Whence  the  primrose  a  mellower  hue  receives 

The  stock-dove  is  there  in  the  beechen-tree, 
Vnd  the  lulling  tone  of  the  honey-bee  ; 
And  the  voice  of  cool  waters  'midst  feathery  fern 
Shedding  sweet  sounds  from  some  hidden  urn. 

There  is  life,  there  is  youth,  there  is  tamelesi 

mirth, 
Where  the  streams,  with  the  lilies  they  wear,  have 

birth ; 

There  is  peace  where  the  alders  are  whispering  low, 
Come  from  man's  dwellings  with  all  their  woe  1 

Yes  I  we  will  come— we  will  leave  behind 
The  homes  and  sorrows  of  human  kind ; 
It  is  well  to  rove  where  the  river  leads 
Its  bright,  blue  vein  along  sunny  meads  . 

It  is  well  through  the  rich,  wild  woods  to  go, 
And  to  pierce  the  haunts  of  the  fawn  and  doe , 
And  to  hear  the  gushing  of  gentle  springs, 
When  the  heart  has  been  fretted  by  worldly  stings 

And  to  watch  the  colours  that  flit  and  pass. 
With  insect  wings  through  the  wavy  grass ; 
And  the  silvery  gleams  o'er  the  ash-tree's  bark, 
Borne  in  with  a  breeze  through  the  foliage  dark 

Joyous  and  far  shall  our  wanderings  be, 
As  the  flight  of  birds  o'er  the  glittering  sea  , 
To  the  woods,  to  the  dingles  where  violets  blow 
We  will  bear  no  memory  of  earthly  woe. 

But  if,  by  the  forest-brook,  we  meet 
A  line  like  the  pathway  of  former  feet  ;— 
If  'midst  the  hills,  in  some  lonely  spot, 
We  reach  the  gray  ruins  of  tower  or  cot  t>  • 

If  the  cell  where  a  hermit  of  old  hath  pray  a 
Lift  up  its  cross  through  the  solemn  shade  ••-- 
Or  if  some  nook,  where  the  wild-flowers  wave 
Bear  token  sad  of  a  mortal  grave, — 

Doubt  not  but  there  will  our  steps  be  stay'd, 
There  our  quick  spirits  awhile  delay'd  ; 
There  will  thought  fix  our  impatient  eyes. 
And  win  back  our  hearts  to  their  sympathies. 

For  what,  though  the  mountains  and  skies  be  fan 
Steep'd  in  soft  hues  of  the  summer-air, — 
'Tis  the  soul  of  man,  by  its  hopes  and  dream*, 
That  lights  up  all  nature  with  living  gleams 

Where  it  hath  sufler'd  and  nobly  striven, 
Where  it  hath  pour'd  forth  its  vows  to  Heavea  ; 
Where  to  repose  it  hath  brightly  past, 
O'er  this  green  earth  there  is  glory  cast. 


332 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  by  that  soul,  amidst  groves  and  rills. 
And  flocks  that  feed  on  a  thousand  hills. 
Birds  of  the  forest,  and  flowers  of  the  sod. 
We,  only  we,  may  be  link'd  to  God  1 


KINDRED  HEARTS. 


OH  !  ask  not,  hope  thou  not  too  much 

Of  sympathy  below; 
Few  are  the  hearts  whence  one  same  touch 

Bids  the  sweet  fountains  flow! 
Few — and  by  still  conflicting  powers 

Forbidden  here  to  meet— 
Such  ties  would  make  this  life  of  ours 

Too  fair  for  aught  so  fleet. 

It  may  be  that  thy  brother's  eye 

Sees  not  as  thine,  which  turns 
In  such  deep  reverence  to  the  sky. 

Where  the  rich  sunset  burns ; 
It  may  be  that  the  breath  of  spring, 

Born  amidst  violets  lone, 
A  rapture  o'er  thy  soul  can  bring— 

A  dream,  to  his  unknown. 

The  tune  that  speaks  of  other  times— 

A  sorrowful  delight ! 
The  melody  of  distant  chimes, 

The  sound  of  waves  by  night : 
The  wind  that,  with  so  many  a  tone, 

Some  chord  within  can  thrill, — 
These  may  have  language  all  thine  own, 

To  him  a  mystery  still. 

Yet  scorn  thou  not  for  this,  the  true 

And  steadfast  love  of  years ; 
The  kindly,  that  from  childhood  grew, 

The  faithful  to  thy  tears! 
if  there  be  one  that  o'er  the  dead 

Hath  in  thy  grief  borne  part, 
And  watch'd  through  sickness  by  thy  bed,— 

Call  his  a  kindred  heart  1 

But  for  those  bonds  all  perfect  made, 

Wherein  bright  spirits  blend. 
Like  sister  flowers  of  one  sweet  shade, 

With  the  same  breeze  that  bend, 
For  that  full  Miss  of  thought  allied, 

Never  to  mortals  given, — 
Oh  I  lay  thy  lovely  dreams  aside, 

Or  lift  them  unto  heaven. 


THE  TRAVELLER  AT  THE  SOURCE  OF 
THE  NILE. 


In  sunset's  light,  o'er  Afric  thrown, 

A  wanderer  proudly  stood 
Beside  the  well-spring,  deep  and  lone, 

Of  Egypt's  awful  flood ; 
The  cradle  of  that  mighty  birth, 
So  long  a  hidden  thing  to  earth  ! 

He  heard  its  life's  first  murmuring  sound, 

A  low  mysterious  tone ; 
A  music  sought,  but  never  found, 

By  kings  and  warriors  gone  ; 
He  listen'd— and  his  heart  bent  hig 
That  was  the  song  of  victory  I 


iigh— 


The  rapture  of  a  conqueror's  mood 

Rush'd  burning  through  his  frame, — 
The  depths  of  that  green  solitude 

Its  torrents  could  not  tame ; 
Though  stillness  lay,  with  eve's  last  smile- 
Bound  those  far  fountains  of  the  Nile. 

Night  came  with  s  ars : — across  h'.s  soul 

There  swept  a  sudden  change, 
E'en  at  the  pilgrim's  glorious  goA 

A  shadow  dark  and  strange 


Breathed  from  the  thought,  so  swift  to  fall 
O'er  triumph's  hour — and  is  tkis  all?* 

No  more  than  this1 — what  seem'd  it  ntw 

First  by  that  spring  to  stand? 
A  thousand  streams  of  lovelier  flow 

Bathed  his  own  mountain  land  ! 
Whence  far  o'er  waste  and  ocean  track. 
Their  wild  sweet  voices  call'd  him  back. 

They  call'd  him  back  to  many  a  glade. 

His  childhood's  haunt  of  play, 
Where  brightly  through  the  beechen  .shade 

Their  waters  glanced  away ; 
They  call'd  him,  with  their  sounding  wave*, 
Back  to  his  fathers'  hills  and  graves. 

But  darkly  mingling  with  the  thought 

Of  each  familiar  scene. 
Rose  up  a  fearful  vision,  fraught 

With  all  that  lay  between  ; 
The  Arab's  lance,  the  desort's  gloom, 
The  whirling  sands,  the  reu  simoom  ! 

Where  was  the  glow  of  power  and  pride  1 

The  spirit  born  to  roam  ? 
His  alter'd  heart  within  him  died 

With  yearnings  for  his  home  ! 
All  vainly  struggling  to  repress 
That  gush  of  painful  tenderness. 

He  wept— the  stars  of  Afric's  heaven 

Behold  his  bursting  tears, 
E'en  on  that  spot  where  fate  had  given 

The  meed  of  toiling  years  ! — 
Oh,  happiness !  how  far  we  flee 
Thine  own  sweet  paths  in  search  of  theer 


CASABIANCA.f 


THE  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 

Whence  all  but  he  had  fled ; 
The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck, 

Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm ; 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud,  though  child-like  form 

The  flames  roll'd  on — h<  would  not  go, 

Without  his  Father's  word  ; 
That  Father,  faint  in  death  below, 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  call'd  aloud  :— "  Say,  Father,  say 

If  yet  my  task  is  done  ?" 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"  Speak,  Father!"  once  again  he  cried 

"  If  I  may  yet  be  gone ! 
And" — but  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  flames  roll'd  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  .ris  waving  hair, 
And  look'd  from  that  lone  post  of  death, 

In  still,  yet  brave  despair. 

•A  remarkable  description  of  feelings  thus  fluctuating  from  tri- 
umph to  despondency,  is  given  in  Brute's  Abyssinian  Travels.  The 
buoyant  exultation  of  his  spirits  on  arriving  at  the  source  of  tl.s 
Nile,  was  almost  immediately  succeeded  by  a  gloom,  which  be 
thus  pourtrays  :  "  I  was,  at  that  very  moment,  in  possess!;*  uf  what 
had  for  many  years  been  the  principal  object  of  my  an.oition  and 
wishes  ;  indifference,  which,  from  the  usual  infirmity  of  human 
nature,  follows,  at  least  for  a  time,  complete  enjoyment,  had  taken 
place  of  it.  The  marsh  and  the  fountains  of  the  Nile,  upon  com. 
parison  with  the  rise  of  many  of  our  rivers,  became  now  a  trifling 
object  in  my  sight.  I  remembered  that  magnificent  scene  in  my 
own  native  country,  where  the  Tweed,  Clyde,  and  Annan,  rise  m 
one  hill.  I  began,  in  my  sorrow,  to  treat  the  inquiry  about  tin 
souice  of  the  Nile  as  a  violent  effort  of  a  distempered  fancy." 

f  Yoong  Casablanca,  a  boy  about  thirteen  years  old,  ton  to  the 
Admiral  of  the  Orient,  remained  at  his  post  (io  the  Battle  of  rtw 
Nile)  after  the  ship  had  taken  fire,  and  all  the  suns  had  been  aban 
doned  ;  and  perished  in  the  explosion  of  the  vessel,  when  the  flams) 
had  ro*-1-*  the  powder. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


S33 


And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"  My  Father!  must  I  stay?" 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud, 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendour  wiW 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high. 
And  stream'd  above  the  gallant  child, 

Like  banners  in  the  sky 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder  sound— 

The  boy— oh  !  where  was  he  ? 
Ask  of  the  winds  that  far  around 

With  fragments  strew'd  the  sea  1 — 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair. 
That  well  had  borne  their  part— 

B  it  the  noblest  thing  which  perish'd  there 
Was  that  young  faithful  heart  I' 


THE  DIAL  OF  FLOWERS.* 

TWAS  a  lovely  thought  to  mark  the  hours, 

As  they  floated  in  light  away, 
By  the  opening  and  the  folding  flowers, 

That  laugh  to  the  summer's  day. 

Thus  had  each  moment  its  own  rich  hue. 

And  its  graceful  cup  and  bell. 
In  whose  colour'd  vase  might  sleep  the  dew. 

Like  a  pearl  in  an  ocean-shell. 

To  such  sweet  signs  might  .the  time  have  flow'd 

In  a  golden  current  on, 
Ere  from  the  garden,  man's  first  abode. 

The  glorious  guests  were  gone. 

Bo  might  the  days  have  been  brightly  told— 
Those  days  of  song  and  dreams — 

When  shepherds  gather'd  their  flocks  of  old. 
By  the  blue  Arcadian  streams. 

So  in  those  isles  of  delight,  that  rest 

Far  off"  in  a  breezeless  main. 
Which  many  a  bark,  with  a  weary  quest, 

Has  sought,  but  still  in  vain. 

Yet  is  not  life,  in  its  real  flight, 

Mark'd  thus— even  thus— on  earth, 

By  the  closing  of  one  hope's  delight, 
And  another's  gentle  birth  ? 

Oh !  let  us  live,  so  that  flower  by  flower, 

Shutting  in  turn,  may  leave 
A  lingerer  still  for  the  sunset  hour, 

A  charm  for  the  Shaded  eve. 


OUR  DAILY  PATHS. 

Naught  thall  prevail  against  at,  or  diatarb 
Our  cheerful  failh,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  bleninp. 

ffWlUMTtt. 

THERE'S  beauty  all  around  our  paths,  if  but  our 

watchful  eyes 
Can  trace  it  'midst  familiar  things,  and  through 

their  lowly  guise; 
We  may  find  it  where  a  hedge-row  showers  its 

blossoms  o'er  our  way. 
Or  a  cottage  window  sparkles  forth  in  the  last  red 

light  of  day. 

We  find  i   where  a  spring  shines  clear,  beneath  an 

aged  tree, 
With  the  foxglove  o'er  the  waters'  glass  borne 

downwards  by  the  bee; 

•Thi.  dial  wa»,  I  believe,  formed  by  Linneu..  and  marked  the 
•«"  »  by  the  opening  and  doling,  at  regular  iu'ervalj,  of  the  flow- 
•>  ir-anged  in  it. 


Or  where  a  swift  and  sunny  gleam  on  the  birclur 

stems  is  thrown, 
As  a  suit  wind  playing  parts  the  leaves,  in  copse* 

green  and  lone. 

We  may  find  it  in  the  winter  boughs,  as  they  cross 

the  cold,  blue  sky. 
While  soft  on  icy  pool  and  stream  their  pencill'd 

shadows  lie, 
When  we  look  upon  their  tracery,  by  the  fairy 

frost-work  bound, 
Whence  the  flitting  red-breast  shakes  a  shower  of 

crystals  to  tht  ground. 

Vesl  beauty  dwells  in  all  our  paths— but  sorrow. 

too  is  there ; 
How  oft  some  cloud  within  us  dims  the  bright,  itiU 

summer  airl 
When  we  carry  our  sick  hearts  abroad  amidst  the 

joyous  things, 
That  through  the  leafy  places  glance  ou  many-Co* 

lour'd  wings ! 

With  shadows  from  the  past  we  fill  the  happy 

woodland  shades. 
And  a  mournful  memory  of  the  dead  is  with  us  in 

the  glades; 
And  our  dream-like  fancies  lend  the  wind  an  echo's 

plaintive  tone 
Of  voices,  and  of  melodies,  and  of  silvery  laughter 

gone. 

But  are  we  free  to  do  ev'n  thus—  to  wander  as  we 

will- 
Bearing  sad  visions  through  the  grove,  and  o'er 

the  breezy  hill  ? 
No  1  in  our  daily  paths  lie  cares,  that  ofttimes  bind 

us  fast, 
While  from  their  narrow  round  we  see  the  golden 

day  fleet  past. 

They  hold  us  from  the  woodlark's  haunts,  and  vio- 
let dinglfs,  back. 

And  from  all  the  lovely  sounds  and  gleams  in  the 
shining  river's  track. 

They  bar  us  from  our  heritage  of  spring-time,  hope 
and  mirth, 

And  weigh  our  burden'd  spirits  down  with  the 
cumbering  dust  of  earth. 

Yet  should  this  be  ?— Too  much,  too  soon,  despond- 

ingly  we  yield  I 
A  better  lesson  we  are  taught  by  the  lilies  of  th« 

field ! 
A  sweeter  by  the  birds  of  heaven— which  tell  us, 

in  their  flight, 
Of  One  that  through  tho  desert  air  for  ever  guides 

them  right. 

Shall  not  this  knowledge  calm  our  hearts,  and  bid 

vain  conflicts  cease? 
Ay,  when  they  commune  with  themselves  in  holy 

hours  of  peace ; 
And  feel  that  by  the  lights  and  clouds  through 

which  our  pathway  lies, 
By  the  beauty  and  the  grief  alike,  we  are  training 

for  the  skies  1 


THE  CROSS  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 


SILENT  and  mournful  sat  an  Indian  chief. 
In  the  red  sunset,  by  a  grassy  tomb; 

His  eyes,  that  might  not  weep,  were  dark  Tlth 

grief, 
And  his  arms  folded  in  majestic  gloom, 

And  his  bow  lay  unstrung  beneath  the  mound 

Which  sanctified  the  gorgeous  waste  around. 

For  a  pale  cross  above  its  greensward  rose. 
Telling  the  cedars  and  the  pines  that  there 

Man's  heart  and  hope  had  struggled  with  his  woes, 
And  lifted  from  the  dust  a  voice  of  prayer. 

Now  all  was  hush'd — and   Eve's  last  splendour 
shone 

With  a  rich  sadness  on  th'  al testing  stone. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


There  came  a  lonely  traveller  o'er  the  wild. 
And  he,  too,  paused  in  reverence  by  that  grave, 

Asking  the  tale  of  its  memorial,  piled 
Between  the  forest  and  the  lake's  bright  wave; 

Till,  as  a  wind  might  stir  a  wither'd  oak, 

On  the  deep  dream  of  age  his  accents  broke. 

And  the  gray  chieftain,  slowly  rising,  said— 
"I  listen  for  the  words,  which,  years  ago, 

Pass'd  o'er  these  waters:  though  the  voice  is  fled 
Which  made  them  as  a  singing  fountain's  flow, 

Vet,  when  I  sit  in  their  long-faded  track, 

Sometimes  the  forest's  murmur  gives  them  back. 

"  Ask  'st  thou  of  him,  whose  house  is  lone  beneath  ? 

I  was  an  eagle  in  my  youthful  pride, 
When  o'er  the  seas  he  came,  with  summer's  breath, 

To  dwell  amidst  us,  on  the  lake's  green  side. 
Many  the  times  of  flowers  have  been  since  then — 
Many,  but  bringing  naught  like  Mm  again  1 

"  Not  with  the  hunter's  bow  and  spear  he  came. 
O'er  the  blue  hills  to  chase  the  flying  roe  ; 

Not  the  dark  glory  of  the  woods  to  tame. 
Laying  their  cedars  like  the  corn-stalks  low; 

But  to  spread  tidings  of  all  holy  things. 

Gladdening  our  souls, as  with  the  morning's  wings. 

"  Doth  not  yon  cypress  whisper  how  we  met, 
I  and  my  brethren  that  from  earth  are  gone. 

Under  its  boughs  to  hear  his  voice,  which  yet 
Seems  through  their  gloom  to  send  a  silvery  tone? 

He  told  of  one,  the  grave's  dark  bands  who  broke 

And  our  hearts  burn'd  within  us  as  he  spoke. 

'  He  told  of  far  and  sunny  lands,  which  lie 
Beyond  the  dust  wherein  our  fathers  dwell : 

Bright  must  they  be !— for  there  are  none  that  die, 
And  none  that  weep,  and  none  that  say  '  Fare 
well  r 

He  came  to  guide  us  thither ; — but  away 

rhe  Happy  call'd  him,  and  he  might  not  stay. 

«  We  saw  him  slowly  fade,— athirst,  perchance, 
For  the  fresh  waters  of  that  lovely  clime ; 

Yet  was  there  still  a  sunbeam  in  his  glance, 
And  on  his  gleaming  hair  no  touch  of  time, — 

Therefore  we  hoped :— but  now  the  lake  looks  dim, 

For  the  green  summer  comes, — and  finds  not  him  I 

"  We  gather'd  round  him  in  the  dewy  hour 
Of  one  still  morn,  beneath  his  chosen  tree ; 

From  his  clear  voice,  at  first,  the  words  of  power 
Came  low,  like  moanings  of  a  distant  sea; 

But  swell'd  and  shook  the  wilderness  ere  long, 

Aa  if  the  spirit  of  the  breeze  grew  strong. 

"  And  then  once  more  they  trembled  on  his  tongue. 
And  his  white  eyelids  flutter'd,  and  his  head 

Fell  back,  and  mists  upon  his  forehead  hung, — 
Know'st  thou  not  how  we  pass  to  join  the  dead  ? 

It  is  enough ! — he  sank  upon  my  breast — 

Our  friend  that  loved  us,  he  was  gone  to  rest ! 

"  We  buried  him  where  he  was  w.ont  to  pray. 
By  the  calm  lake,  e'en  here,  at  eventide; 

We  rear'd  this  Cross  in  token  where  he  lay, 
For  on  toe  Cross,  he  said,  his  Lord  had  died  1 

Now  hath  he  surely  reach'd,  o'er  mount  and  wave, 

That  flowery  land  whose  green  turf  hides  no  grave 

"  But  I  am  sad !— I  mourn  the  clear  light  taken 
Back  from  my  people,  o'er  whose  place  it  shoue, 

The  pathway  to  the  better  shore  forsaken, 
And  the  true  words  forgotten,  save  by  one. 

Who  hears  them  faintly  sounding  from  the  past, 

Mingled  with  death-songs  in  each  fitful  blast." 

Then  spoke  the  wanderer  forth  with  kindling 

eye  :— 

"  Son  of  the  wilderness!  despair  thou  not, 
Though  the  bright  hour  may  seem  to  thee  gone  by, 

And  the  cloud  settled  o'er  thy  nation's  lot ; 
Heaven  darkly  works ;— yet  where  the  seed  hath 

been 
There  shall  the  fruitage,  glowing  yet,  be  seen. 


"Hope  on,  nope  ever!— by  the  sudden  springing 
Of  green  leaves  which  the  winter  hid  so  long ; 

And  by  the  bursts  of  free,  triumphant  singing. 
After  cold  silent  months,  the  woods  among ; 

And  by  the  rending  of  the  frozen  chains, 

Which  bound  the  glorious  rivers  on  their  plains; 

"Deem  not  the  words  of  light  that  here  were 

spoken, 

But  as  a  lovely  song  to  leave  no  trace, 
Vet  shall  the  gloom  which  wraps  thy  hills  b» 

broken, 

And  the  full  day-spring  rise  upon  thy  racel 
And  fading  mists  the  better  path  disclose. 
And  the  wide  desert  blossom  as  the  rose." 

So  by  the  Cross  they  parted,  in  the  wild, 
Each  fraught  with  musings  for  life's  after-day, 

Memories  to  visit  one,  the  forest's  child, 
By  many  a  blue  stream  in  its  lonely  way; 

And  upon  one,  'midst  busy  throngs  to  press 

Deep  thoughts  and  sad,  yet  full  of  holiness. 


LAST  RITES. 


BY  the  mighty  minster's  bell. 
Tolling  with  a  sudden  swell; 
By  the  colours  half-mast  high, 
O'er  the  sea  hung  mournfully  ; 
Know,  a  prince  hath  died  I 

By  the  drum's  dull  muffled  sound, 
By  the  arms  that  sweep  the  ground, 
By  the  volleying  muskets'  tone, 
Speak  ye  of  a  soldier  gone 

In  his  manhood's  pride. 

By  the  chanted  psalm  that  fills 
Reverently  the  ancient  hills,* 
Learn,  that  from  his  harvests  done. 
Peasants  bear  a  brother  on 
To  his  last  repose. 

By  the  pall  of  snowy  white 
Through  the  yew-trees  gleaming  bright 
By  the  garland  on  the  bier, 
Weep!  a  maiden  claims  thy  tear- 
Broken  is  the  rose  I 

Which  is  the  tenderest  rite  of  all  T 
Buried  virgin's  coronal. 
Requiem  o'er  the  monarch's  head. 
Farewell  gun  for  warrior  dead, 
Herdsman's  funeral  hymn  1 

Tells  not  each  of  human  woe! 
Each  of  hope  and  strength  brought  low  1 
Number  each  with  holy  things, 
If  one  chastenimr  thnu.L'hl  it  brings, 
Ere  life's  day  grow  dim! 


THE  HEBREW  MOTHER. 


THB  rose  was  in  rich  bloom  on  Sharon's  plain 
When  a  young  mother,  with  her  first-born,  thence 
Went  up  to  Zion ;  for  the  boy  was  vow'd 
Unto  the  Temple  service :— by  the  hand 
She  led  him,  and  her  silent  soul,  the  while. 
Oft  as  the  dewy  laughter  of  his  eye 
Met  her  sweet  serious  plance,  rejoiced  to  think 
That  aught  so  pure,  so  beautiful,  was  hers. 
To  bring  before  her  God.    So  pass'd  they  on, 
O'er  Judah's  hills ;  and  wheresoe'er  the  leavei 
Of  the  broad  sycamore  made  sounds  at  noon, 
Like  lulling  rain-drops,  or  the  olive  boughs, 
With  their  cool  dimness,  cross'd  the  sultry  blue 
Of  Syria's  heaven,  she  paused,  that  he  might  rest 
Yet  fiom  her  own  meek  eyelids  chased  the  sleep 
That  weigh'd  their  dark  fringe  down,  to  sit  and 
watch 


•  A  ea»tom  ttill  retiined  it  rar»l  fuoermlt,  in  win.  p»rU  of  Em 

aoJ  »uJ  Walo. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS 


SSI 


The  crimson  deepening  o'er  his  cheek's  repose, 
As  at  a  red  flower's  heart.    And  where  a  fount 
Lay  like  a  twilight  star  'midst  palmy  shades. 
Making  its  bank  green  gems  along  the  wild 
There,  too,  she  linger'd,  from  the  diamond  wuve 
Drawing  bright  water  for  his  rosy  lips, 
And  softly  parting  clusters  of  jet  curls 
To  jathe  his  brow.    At  last  the  Fane  was  reach'd, 
The  Earth's  One  Sanctuary — and  rapture  hush  J 
Her  bosom,  as  before  her,  through  the  day, 
It  rose,  a  mountain  of  white  marble,  steep'd 
In  light,  like  floating  gold.    But  when  that  hour 
Waned  to  the  farewell  moment,  when  the  boy 
Lifted,  through  rainbow-gleaming  tears,  his  eye 
Beseechingly  to  hers,  and  half  in  fear 
Turn'd  from  the  white-robed  priest,  and  round  her 

arm 

Clung  even  as  joy  clings— the  deep  spring-tide 
Of  nature  then  swell'd  high,  and  o'er  her  child 
Bending,  her  soul  broke  forth,  in  mingled  founds 
Of  weeping  and  sad  song. — "Alas  1"  she  cried, 

"Alas !  my  boy,  thy  gentle  grasp  is  on  me ; 
The  bright  tears  quiver  in  thy  pleading  eyes, 

And  now  fond  thoughts  arise, 
And  silver  cords  again  to  earth  have  won  me 
And  like  a  vine  thou  claspest  my  full  heart — 

How  shall  I  hence  depart  1 

"How  the  lone  paths  retrace  where  thou  wert 

playing 
60  late,  along  the  mountains,  at  my  side  7 

And  I,  in  joyous  pride, 

By  every  place  of  flowers  my  course  delaying, 
Wove,  e'en  as  pearls,  the  lilies  round  thy  hair. 

Beholding  thee  so  fair ! 

"And,  oh !  the  home  whence  thy  bright  smile  hath 

parted, 

Will  it  not  seem  as  if  the  sunny  day 
Turn'd  from  its  door  away  ? 
While  through   its  chambers  wandering  weary- 

hearted, 
I  languish  for  thy  voice,  which  past  me  still, 

Went  like  a  singing  rill. 

"  Under  the  palm-trees  thou  no  more  ihalt  "nectme, 
When  from  the  fount  at  evening  I  teturn. 

With  the  full  water-urn  ; 
Nor  will  thy  sleep's  low  dove-like  breathings  greet 

me, 
As  'midst  the  tilence  of  the  stars  I  wake, 

And  watch  for  thy  dear  sake. 

"  And  thou,  will  slumber's  dewy  cloud  fall  round 

thee, 
Without  thy  mother's  hand  to  smooth  thy  bed  7 

Wilt  thou  not  vainly  spread 
Thine  arms,  when  darkness  as  a  veil  bath  wound 

thee, 
To  fold  my  neck,  and  lift  up,  in  thy  fear, 

A  cry  which  none  shall  hear? 
M  What  have  I  said,  my  child  ?— Will  He  not  hear 

thee, 
Who  the  young  ravens  heareth  from  their  nest  7 

Shall  He  not  guard  thy  rest. 
And,  in  the  hush  of  holy  midnight  near  thee. 
Breathe  o'er  thy  soul,  and  fill  its  dreams  with 
joy?- 

Thou  shall  sleep  soft,  my  boy. 

•  I  give  thee  to  thy  God— the  God  that  gave  thee. 
A  well-spring  of  deep  gladness,  to  my  heart! 

And  precious  as  thou  art, 

And  pure  as  dew  of  Hermon,  He  shall  have  thee 
My  own,  my  beautiful,  my  undenled ! 

And  thou  shalt  be  His  child. 

"Therefore,  farewell !— I  go,  my  soul  may  fail  me, 
AS  the  hart  panteth  for  the  water-brooks, 

Yearning  for  thy  sweet  looks. — 
Rut  thou,  my  first-born,  droop  not,  nor  bewail  me; 
Thou  in  the  Shadow  of  'he  Rock  shalt  dwell. 

The  Rock  ou  Strength.— Fare  well  I 


THE  WRECK. 

ALL  night  the  booming  minute  gun 

Had  peal'd  along  the  deep. 
And  mournfully  the  rising  sun 

Look'd  o'er  the  tide-worn  steep. 
A  bark  from  India's  coral  strand, 

Before  the  raging  blast. 
Had  vail'd  her  topsails  to  the  sand. 

And  bow'd  her  noble  mast. 

The  queenly  ship !— brave  hearts  bad  striven 

And  true  ones  died  witn  her  I— 
We  saw  her  mighty  cable  riven. 

Like  floating  gossamer. 
We  saw  her  proud  flag  struck  that  morn, 

A  star  once  o'er  the  seas— 
Her  anchor  gone,  her  deck  uptorn — 

And  sadder  things  than  these  1 

We  saw  her  treasures  cast  away, — 

The  rocks  with  pearls  were  sown. 
And,  strangely  sad,  the  ruby's  ray 

Flash'd  out  o'er  fretted  stone. 
And  gold  \\i\f  strewn  the  wet  sands  o'er. 

Like  ashes  by  a  breeze; 
And  gorgeous  robes— but  oh!  that  shore 

Had  sadder  things  than  these  I 

We  saw  the  strong  man  still  and  low, 
A  crush'd  reed  thrown  aside ! 

Yet,  by  that  rigid  lip  and  brow. 
Not  without  strife  he  died. 

And  near  him  on  the  sea-weed  lay- 
Till  then  we  had  not  wept — 

But  well  our  gushing  hearts  might  say, 
That  there  a  mother  slept! 

For  her  pale  arms  a  babe  had  prest. 

With  such  a  wreathing  grasp, 
Billows  had  dash'd  o'er  that  fond  breast, 

Yet  not  undone  the  clasp. 
Her  very  tresses  had  been  flung 

To  wrap  the  fair  child's  form, 
Where  still  their  wet  long  streamers  hung, 

All  tangled  by  the  storm. 

And  beautiful,  'midst  that  wild  scene, 

Gleam'd  up  the  boy's  dead  face, 
Like  slumbers,  trustingly  serene. 

In  melancholy  grace. 
Deep  in  her  bosom  lay  his  head, 

With  half-shut  violet  eye — 
He  had  known  little  of  her  dread. 

Naught  of  her  agony! 

Ohl  human  love,  whose  yearning  heart 

Through  all  things  vainly  true, 
So  stamps  upon  thy  mortal  part 

Its  passionate  adieu— 
Surely  thou  hast  another  lot, 

There  is  some  home  for  thee, 
Where  thou  shalt  rest,  remembering  not 

The  moaning  of  the  sea  1 


THE   TRUMPET. 

THB  trumpet's  voice  hath  roused  the  land, 

Light  up  the  beacon-pyre  I — 
A  hundred  hills  have  seen  the  brand. 

And  waved  the  sign  of  fire. 
A  hundred  banners  to  the  breeze 

Their  gorgeous  folds  have  cast— 
And,  hark !  was  that  the  sound  of  seas  I 

— A  king  to  war  went  past. 
The  chief  is  arming  in  his  hall. 

The  peasant  by  his  hearth  : 
The  mourner  hears  the  thrilling  call, 

And  rises  from  the  earth. 
The  mother  on  her  first-born  son, 

Looks  with  a  boiling  eye— 
Thr.y  come  not  back,  though  all  be  won 

Whose  young  hearts  leap  so  high. 


Mfl 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  bard  hath  ceased  his  song,  and  bound 

The  falchion  to  his  side ; 
E'en  for  the  marriage  altar  crown'd. 

The  lover  quits  his  bride. 
And  all  this  haste,  and  change,  and  fear, 

By  earthly  clarion  spread  ! — 
How  will  it  be,  when  kingdoms  hear 

The  blast  that  wakes  the  Dead  ? 


EVENING  PRAYER  AT  A  GIRL'S  SCHOOL. 


Now  ID  thy  youth,  bewech  of  Him 

Who  giveth,  upbraiding  not; 
That  hit  light  in  thy  heart  become  not  dim, 

And  his  love  be  unforgot ; 
And  Iby  God,  in  the  darkot  of  dajn,  will  be 
GreenncM,  and  beauty,  and  rtrengtb  to  thee. 

Bernard  Barton. 


HUSH  !  't  is  a  holy  hour— the  quiet  room 

Seems  like  a  temple,  while  yon  soft  lamp  sheds 
A  faint  and  starry  radiance,  through  the  gloom 
And  the  sweet  stillness,  down  on  fair  young 

heads, 

With  all  their  clustering  locks,  untouch'd  by  care. 
And  bow'd,  as  flowers  are  bow'd  with  night,  in 
prayer. 

Seize  on — 'tis  lovely  1 — Childhood's  lip  and  cheek, 
Mantling  beneath  its  earnest  brow  of  thought- 
Gaze — yet  what  seest  thou  in  those  fair,  and  meek, 
And  fragile  things,  as  but  for  sunshine  wrought  ? 
Thou  seest  what  Grief  must  nurture  for  the  sky, 
What  Death  must  fashion  for  Eternity  I 

Oh  !  joyous  creatures!  that  will  sink  to  rest. 
Lightly,  when  those  pure  orisons  are  done, 
As  birds  with  slumber's  honey-dew  opprest, 
'Midst  the  dim  folded  leaves,  at  set  of  sun- 
Lift  up  your  hearts!  though  yet  no  sorrow  lie* 
Dark  in  the  summer-heaven  of  those  clear  eyes. 

Though  fresh  within  your  breasts  th*  untroubled 
springs 

Of  Hope  make  melody  where'er  ye  tread, 
And  o'er  your  sleep  bright  shadows,  from  the  wingt 

Of  spirits  visiting  but  youth,  be  spread — 
Yet  in  those  flute-like  voices,  mingling  low, 
Is  woman's  tenderness — how  soon  her  woe  I 

Her  look  is  on  you— silent  tears  to  weep, 
And  patient  smiles  to  wear  through  suffering's 
hour, 

And  sumless  riches,  from  affection's  deep, 
To  pour  on  broken  reeds— a  wasted  shower  I 

And  to  make  idols,  and  to  find  them  clay, 

And  to  bewail  that  worship — therefore  pray  I 

Her  lot  is  on  you— to  be  found  untired. 
Watching  the  stars  out  by  the  bed  of  pain, 

With  a  pale  cheek,  and  yet  a  brow  inspired, 
And  a  true  heart  of  hope,  though  hope  be  vain  ; 

Meekly  to  bear  with  wrong,  to  cheer  decay. 

And,  oh  1  to  love  through  all  things— therefore  pray  I 

And  take  the  thought  of  this  calm  vesper  time 
With  its  low  murmuring  sounds  and  silvery  light. 

On  through  the  dark  days  fading  from  their  prime, 
As  a  sweet  dew  to  keep  your  souls  from  blight ! 

Earth  will  forsake— oh !  happy  to  have  given 

Th'  unbroken  heart's  first  fragrance  unto  Heaven. 


THE  HOUR  OF  DEATH, 

D  «t  dtns  It  Nature  d'aimer  *  m  lirrer  a  ride*  nun*  qita  i» 
AM!*.— Cormm. 

LEAVES  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh !  Death. 


Day  is  for  mortal  care, 

Eve,  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth, 
Night,  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  *, 

prayer — 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  Mightiest  of  the  earth. 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 
Its  feverish  hour,  of  mirth,  and  song,  and  wine; 

There  comes  a  day  for  griefs  o'erwhelming  power 
A  time  for  softer  tears— but  all  are  thine. 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee— but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripen'd  bloom  to  seize  their  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall. 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oht  Death, 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane. 
When  summer-birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea, 

When  autumn's  hue  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain, 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee  ? 

Is  it  when  spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lief 
Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale?— 
They  have  one  season — all  are  ours  to  die  1 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam, 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home, 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth— and  thou  art  there. 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest — 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall. 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath 

And  stars  to  set— but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh!  Dctth. 


THE  CLIFFS  OF  DOVER. 

The  inriolate  Island  of  the  sage  and  free. T»im 


ROCKS  of  my  country  1  let  the  eloud 
Your  crested  heights  array, 

And  rise  ye,  like  a  fortrest  proud. 
Above  the  surge  and  spray  I 

My  spirit  greets  yoa  as  ye  stand. 
Breasting  the  biilow  s  foam: 

Oh !  thus  for  ev^r  guard  the  land. 
The  sever'd  Land  of  Hi  'me  I 

I  have  left  rich  blue  skies  behind. 

Lighting  up  classic  shrines, 
And  tousle  in  the  southern  wind. 

And  sunshine  on  the  vines. 

The  breathings  of  the  myrtle-flower* 

Have  floated  o'er  my  way ; 
The  pilgrim's  voice,  at  vesper-hour*. 

Hath  soothed  me  with  its  lay. 

The  Isles  of  Greece,  the  HilU  of  Spaif. 

The  purple  Heavens  of  Rome, — 
Yes,  all  are  glorious ; — yet  again, 

I  blest  thee,  Land  of  Home  I 

For  thine  the  Sabbath  peace,  my  lan<  ' 
And  thine  the  guarded  hearth ; 

And  thine  the  dead,  the  noble  band. 
That  make  thee  holy  earth. 

Their  voices  meet  me  in  thy  breeze, 
Their  steps  are  on  thy  plains ; 

Their  names  by  old  majestic  trees, 
Are  whisper'd  round  thy  fanes. 

Their  blood  hath  mingled  with  the  H4C 

Of  thine  exulting  sea ; 
Oh !  be  it  still  a  joy,  a  pride, 

To  live  and  die  for  thee  I 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


337 


THE  LOST  PLEIAD. 


"Like  the  loit  Pleiad  KID  no  more  below."— Byron. 


Ann  is  there  glory  from  the  heavens  departed  1— 
Oh!  void  unmark'd  !—  thy  sisters  of  th«  sky 
Still  hold  their  place  on  high, 

Though  from  its  rank  thine  orb  so  long  hath  started, 
Thou,  that  no  more  art  seen  of  mortal  eye) 

Hath  the  night  lost  a  gem,  the  regal  night? 

She  wears  her  crown  of  old  magnificence, 

Though  thou  art  exiled  thence — 
No  desert  seems  to  part  those  urns  of  light, 

'Midst  the  far  depths  of  purple  gloom  intense. 

They  rise  in  joy,  the  starry  myriads  burning— 
The  shepherd  greets  them  on  his  mountains  free 

And  from  the  silvery  sea 
To  them  the  sailor's  wakeful  eye  is  turning— 
Unchanged  they  rise,  they  have  not  mourn'd  for 

thee. 

Conldst  thou  be  shaken  from  thy  radiant  place, 
Ev'n  as  a  dew-drop  from  the  myrtle  spray, 

Swept,  by  the  wind  away? 
VVcrt  thou  not  peopled  by  some  glorious  race. 
And  was  there  power  to  smite  them  with  decay  1 

Why,  who  shall  talk  of  thrones,  of  sceptres  riven  7 
Bow'd  be  our  hearts  to  think  on  what  we  are, 
When  from  its  height  afar 

A  world  sinks  thus— and  yon  majestic  heaven 
Shines  not  the  less  for  that  one  vanish'd  star! 


THE  GRAVES  OF  MARTYRS. 

TUB  kings  of  old  have  shrine  and  tomb, 
In  many  a  minster's  haughty  gloom; 
And  green,  along  the  ocean.side, 
The  mounds  arise  where  heroes  died; 

But  show  me,  on  thy  flowery  breast, 
Earth!  where  thy  nameless  martyrs  rest! 

The  thousands  that,  uncheer'd  by  praise, 
Have  made  one  ottering  of  their  days; 
Vnr  Truth,  for  Heaven,  for  Freedom's  sake, 
Kesign'd  the  bitter  cup  to  i.-ik.;, 
And  silently,  in  fearless  faith, 
Bowing  their  noble  souls  to  death. 

'Where  sleep  they.  Earth  ?— by  no  proud  stone 
Their  narrow  couch  of  rest  is  known  ; 
The  still  End  glory  of  their  name, 
Hallows  no  mountain  unto  Fame; 
No — not  a  tree  the  record  bears 
Of  their  deep  thoughts  and  lonely  prayer*. 

Vet  haply  all  around  lie  strew'd 

The  ashes  of  that  multitude  : 

It  may  be  that  each  day  we  tread, 

Where  thus  devoted  hearts  have  bled, 

And  the  young  dowers  our  children  sow. 

Take  root  in  holy  dust  below. 

(Ih  !  that  the  many-rustling  leaves, 
Which  round  our  homes  the  summer  weaves 
Or  ttiat  the  streams,  in  whose  glaJ  voice 
Our  own  familiar  paths  rejoice, 
Might  whisper  through  the  starry  sky, 
To  tell  where  those  blest  slumberers  lie  I 

Would  not  our  inmost  hearts  be  still'd, 
With  knowledge  of  their  presence  fill'd 
And  by  its  breathings  taught  to  prize 
The  meekness  of  self-sacrifice? 
— But  the  old  woods  and  sounding  waves 
Are  silent  of  those  hidden  graves. 

Yet  what  if  no  light  footstep  there 
In  pilgrim-love  and  awe  repair, 
So  let  it  be  !— like  him,  whose  clay 
Deep  buried  by  his  Maker  lay, 
They  sleep  in  secret, — but  their  sod, 
Unknown  to  man,  is  mark'd  of  God! 

22 


THE  VOICE  OP  HOME  TO  THE  PRODIOAI 

Von  Baumen,  aus  Wellen,  am  Mauern, 
Wie  raft  es  dir  fr.  undlicli  mil  liti.l ; 
Was  hast  du  r.u  wandcrn.  lu  trauern  > 
Komm'  spielen,  du  Ireundliches  Kind  ! 

Lti  MMc  Fauqm. 

OH  !  when  wilt  thou  return 

To  thy  spirit's  early  loves? 
To  the  freshness  of  the  morn, 

To  the  stillness  of  the  groves  7 

The  summer-birds  are  railing 
Thy  household  porch  around, 

And  the  merry  waters  falling. 
With  sweet  laughter  in  their  sound. 

And  a  thousand  hright-vein'd  flowers 
From  their  banks  of  moss  and  fern, 

Breathe  of  the  sunny  hours — 
But  when  wilt  thou  return  7 

Ohf  thou  hast  wander'd  long 
From  thy  home  without  a  guide. 

And  thy  native  woodland  song, 
In  thine  alter'd  heart  hath  died. 

Thou  hast  flung  the  wealth  away, 
And  the  glory  of  thy  spring: 

And  to  thee  the  leaves'  light  play 
Is  a  long-forgotten  thing. 

Bill  when  wilt  thou  return? — 
Sweet  dews  may  freshen  soon 

The  flower,  Within  whose  urn 
Too  fiercely  gazed  the  noon. 

O'er  the  imago  of  the  sky. 
Which  the  lake's  clear  bosom  won 

Darkly  may  shadows  lie — 
But  not  for  evermore. 

Give  back  thy  heart  again, 
To  the  freedom  of  the  woods, 

To  the  birds'  triumphant  strain, 
To  the  mountain  solitudes  I 

But  when  wilt  tliou  return  7 

Along  thine  own  pure  air, 
There  are  young  sweet  voices  borne— 

Oh!  should  not  thine  be  there? 

Still  at  thy  father's  board 
There  is  kept  a  place  for  thee. 

And,  by  thy  smile  restored, 
Joy  round  the  hearth  should  be. 

Still  hath  thy  mother's  eye. 

Thy  coming  step  to  greet, 
A  look  of  days  gone  by, 

Tender  and  gravely  sweet 

Still,  when  the  prayer  is  said, 
For  thee  kind  bosoms  yearn,— 

For  thee  fond  tears  are  shed- 
On !  when  wilt  thou  return  7 


THE  HOUR  OF  PRAYER. 

Pregar,  pregar,  pregar, 
Ch'  aflro  ponno  i  mortal!  al  planner  m'e? 


CHILD,  amidst  the  flowers  at  play 
While  the  red  light  fades  away; 
Mother,  with  thine  earnest  eye, 
Ever  following  silently  ; 
Father,  by  the  bree/.e  of  eve 
Call'd  thy  harvest  work  to  leave; 
Pray — ere  yet  the  dark  hours  be, 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  kneel 


338 


REMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Traveller,  in  the  stranger's  land. 
Far  from  thine  own  household  band; 
Mourner,  hnunted  by  the  tone 
Of  a  voice  from  this  world  gone  ; 
Captive,  in  whose  narrow  cell 
Sunshine  hath  not  leave  to  dwell; 
Bailor,  on  the  darkening  sea — 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  kneel 

Warrior,  that  from  battle  won 
Breathest  now  at  set  of  sun ; 
Woman,  o'er  the  lowly  slain 
Weeping  on  his  burial-plain  ; 
Thou,  the  weary  and  o'erworn; 
Tho-i,  whose  hope  hath  wings  of  morn  ( 
Heaven's  first  star  alike  ye  see 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee  I 


THE  WAKENING. 


How  many  thousands  are  wakening  now  I 
Some  to  the  songs  from  the  forest-bough, 
To  Hi  •  rustling  of  leaves  at  the  lattice-pane, 
To  tlw  chiming  fall  of  the  early  rain. 

And  some  far  out  on  the  deep  mid-sea, 
To  the  dash  of  the  waves  in  their  foaming  glee. 
As  they  break  into  spray  on  the  ship's  t:ill  side, 
That  holds  through  the  tumult  her  path  of  pride 

And  some — oh  !  well  may  their  hearts  rejoice — 
To  the  gentle  sound  of  a  mother's  voice  I 
Long  shall  they  yearn  for  that  kindly  tone, 
When  from  the  board  and  the  hearth  'tis  gone 

And  some  in  the  camp,  to  the  bugle's  breath. 
And  »S"  tramp  of  the  steed  on  the  echoing  heath 
And  the  sudden  roar  of  the  hostile  gun, 
V-'iiich  tells  that  a  fluid  must  ore  night  be  won. 

And  some,  in  the  gloomy  convict-cell, 

To  the  dull  deep  note  of  the  warning  bell, 

As  it  heavily  calls  them  forth  to  die. 

When  the  bright  sun  mounts  in  the  laughing  §kjr. 

And  some  to  the  peal  of  the  hunter's  horn, 
And  some  to  the  din  from  the  city  borne. 
And  some  to  the  rolling  of  torrent-floods, 
Far  'midst  old  mountains  and  solemn  woods. 

Bo  are  we  roused  on  this  chequer'd  earth. 
Each  unto  light  hath  a  daily  birth. 
Though  fearful  or  joyous,  though  sad  or  sweet. 
Are  the  voices  which  first  our  upspringing  meet. 

But  one  must  the  sound  be,  and  one  the  call, 
Which  from  the  dust  shall  awake  us  all. 
One — but  to  scver'd  and  distant  dooms — 
How  shall  the  sleepers  arise  from  the  tombs  } 


THE  BREEZE  FROM  SHORE. 


Poetry  reveals  to  us  the  loveliness  of  nature,  brings 
back  the  freshness  of  youthful  fooling,  revives  the  relish 
of  simple  pleasures,  keeps  unquenched  the  enthusiasm 
which  warmed  the  spring-time  of  our  being,  refines 
youthful  love,  strengthens  our  interest  in  human  nature, 
by  vivid  delineatiuns  of  its  tendered  and  loftiest  feel- 
ings, and,  through  the  brightness  of  its  prophetic  visions, 
helps  faith  to  lay  hold  on  the  future  life. — C  \anning. 


JOT  is  upon  the  lonely  seas 
When  Indian  forests  pour 
Forth  to  the  billow  and  the  breeza 

Their  odours  from  the  shore  ; 
*«>y,  when  the  soft  air's  fanning  sigh 
Bears  on  the  breath  of  Araby. 


Oh!  welcome  are  the  winds  that  tell 

A  wanderer  of  the  deep, 
Where,  far  away,  the  jasmines  dwell. 

And  where  the  myrrh-trees  weep  I 
Blest,  on  the  sounding  surge  and  foam. 
Are  tidings  of  the  citron's  home  1 

The  sailor  at  the  helm  they  greet, 

And  hope  his  bosom  stirs, 
Upspringing,  'midst  the  waves,  to  greet 

The  fair  earth's  messengers, 
That  woo  him,  from  the  moaning  main. 
Back  to  her  glorious  bowers  again. 

They  woo  him,  whispering  lovely  tales 

Of  many  a  flowering  glade, 
And  fount's  bright  gleam  in  island  vale* 

Of  golden-fruited  shade; 
Across  his  lone  ship's  wuke  they  bring 
A  vision  and  a  glow  of  spring. 

And  oh !  ye  masters  of  the  lay, 

Come  not  ev'n  thus  your  songs 
That  meet  us  on  life's  weary  way, 

Amidst  her  toiling  throngs? 
Yes !  o'er  the  spirit  thus  they  bear 
A  current  of  celestial  air. 

Their  power  is  from  the  brighter  clime 

That  in  our  liirtli  hath  part; 
Tli  ir  i    IPS  are  of  the  world,  which  time 

•Scars  not  within  the  heart ; 
They  tell  us  of  the  living  light 
In  its  green  places  ever  bright. 

They  call  us,  with  a  voice  divine, 

Back  to  our  early  lovt,1— 
Our  vows  of  youth  at  many  a  shrine. 

Whence  far  and  fast  we  rove : — 
Welcome  high  thought  and  holy  strain 
That  make  us  Truth's  and  Heaven's  again  1 


THE  DYING  IMPROV1SATORE.* 


My  neut  ihall  be  pour'd  orer  thee— and  break. 

Prophecy  of 


THE  spirit  of  my  land ! 
It  visits  me  once  more!— though  I  must  die 
Far  from  the  myrtles  which  thy  breeze  hath  fann'd. 

My  own  bright  Italy  1 

It  is,  it  is  thy  breath. 

Which  stirs  my  soul  e'en  yet,  as  wavering  flam* 
Is  shaken  by  the  wind  ; — in  life  and  death 

Still  trembling,  yet  the  same  t 

Oh!  that  love's  quenchless  power 
Might  waft  my  voice  to  fill  thy  summer  sky. 
And  through  thy  groves  its  dying  music  shower, 

Italy!  Italy! 

The  nightingale  is  there, 

The  sunbeam's  glow,  the  citron-flower's  perfume. 
The  south-wind's  whisper  in  the  scented  air- 
It  will  not  pierce  the  tomb! 

Never,  oh !  never  more, 

On  thy  Rome's  purple  heaven  mine  eye  shall  dwell, 
Or  watch  the  bright  waves  melt  along  thy  shore— 

My  Italy,  farewell ! 

Atesl— thy  hills  among, 
Had  I  but  left  a  memory  of  my  name, 
Of  love  and  grief,  one  deep,  true,  fervent  song. 

Unto  immortal  fame ! 

But  like  a  lute's  brief  tone, 
Like  a  rose-odour  on  the  breezes  cast, 
Like  a  swift  flush  of  day-spring,  seen  and  gt>M, 

So  hath  my  spirit  pass'd  ! 

•Sestini,  the  Rircnn  Imrmwtsatnie.  when  on  his  death-fed  at  P^ 
rii,  i«  «aid  to  hive  poured  forth  a  Farewell  to  Italy,  in  hi<  nxMl  >m 
puuoneA  pottrf. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


339 


Pouring  itself  away, 
A*  a  wild  bird  amidst  the  foliage  turns 
That  which  within  him  triumphs,  beats,  or  bums. 

Into  a  fleeting  lay; 

That  swells,  and  floats,  and  dies. 
Leaving  no  echo  to  the  summer  woods 
Of  the  rich  breathings  and  impassion'd  sigh*, 

Which  thrill'd  their  solitudes. 

Yet,  yet  remember  me! 

Friends  !  that  upon  its  murmurs  oft  have  hung, 
When  from  my  bosom,  joyously  and  free, 

The  fiery  fountain  sprung. 

Under  the  dark  rich  blue 
Of  midnight  heavens,  ami  on  the  star-lit  sea. 
And  when  woods  kindle  into  spring's  first  hue, 

Sweet  friends  I  remember  me  1 

And  in  the  marble  halls, 

IVhere  life's  full  clow  the  dreams  of  beauty  wear 
And  poet-thoughts  embodied  light  the  walls, 

Let  me  be  with  you  there ! 

Fain  would  I  bind  for  you 
My  memory  with  all  glorious  things  to  dwell; 
Pain  bid  all  lovely  sounds  my  name  renew — 

Sweet  friends,  bright  land,  farewell  I 


MUSIC  OF  YESTERDAY. 


O!  mein  Gent,  icli  futile  n  in  mir,  ttrebt  naeh  etwai  CeberfrA 
•tern,  in  keinem  Menrehen  gejonnt  ht. Titek. 


THE  chord,  the  harp's  full  chord  IB  hush'd, 

The  voice  hnth  died  away, 
Whence  music,  like  sweet  waters,  gush'd. 

But  yesterday. 

Th'  awakening  note,  the  breeze-like  swell. 

The  full  o'ersweeping  tone, 
The  sounds  that  sigh'd  "  Farewell,  farewell  V 

Are  gone — all  gone. 

The  love,  whose  fervent  spirit  pase'd 
With  the  rich  measure's  flow ; 

The  grief,  to  which  it  sank  at  last — 
Where  are  they  now  ? 

They  are  with  the  scents,  by  summer's  breath 

Borne  from  a  rose  now  shed ; 
With  tlii'  words  from  lips  long  seal'd  in  death— 

For  ever  fled. 

The  sea-shell  of  its  native  deep 

A  moaning  thrill  retains, 
Rut  earth  and  air  no  record  keep 

Of  .parted  strains. 

And  all  the  memories,  all  -the  dreams, 

They  woke  in  floating  by; 
The  lender  thoughts,  th'  Klysiun  glean* — 

Could  these  too  die  1 

They  died — as  on  the  water's  breast 

The  rrpple  melts  away, 
When  the  breeze  that  stirr'd  it  Rinks  to  rest — 

So  perish'd  they  1 

Mysterious  in  their  sudden  birth, 

And  mournful  in  their  close, 
Pawing,  and  .finding  not  on  earth 

Aim  or  repose. 

Whence  were  they  ?— like  the  breath  of  flower* 

Why  thus  to  come  and  go? — 
A  long,  long  journey  must  be  ours, 

Ere  this  we  know  I 
V«fc.  IV.-M 


THE  FORSAKEN  HEARTH. 


Wu  mir  fehlt  ?— Mir  fi-hlt  ja  alia, 
Bio  K>  faux  verlaaen  bier ! 

Tyrolttt  Melody. 

THE  Hearth,  the  Hearth  is  desolate,  the  fire  <• 

quetich'd  and  gone, 
That   into   happy  children's  eyes   once  brightly 

laughing  shone; 
The  place  where  mirth  and  music  met  is  hush'd 

through  day  and  night,— 
Oh  I  for  one  kind,  one  sunny  face,  of  all  that  there 

made  light ! 

But  scatter'd  are  those  pleasant  smiles  afar  by 

mount  and  shore, 
Like  gleaming  waters  from  one  spring  dispersed 

to  meet  no  more  ; 
Those  kindred  eyes  reflect  not  now  each  other's 

joy  or  mirth. 
Unbound  is  that  sweet  wreath  of  home— alas  !  the 

lonely  Hearth  1 

The  voices  that  have  mingled  here  now  speak 

another  tongue, 
Or  breathe,  perchance,  to  alien  ears  the  songs  their 

mother  sung ; 
Sad,  strangely  sad,  in  stranger  lands,  must  sound 

each  household  tone, — 
The  Hearth,  the  Hearth  is  desolate,  the  bright  fire 

quench'd  and  gone. 

But  are  they  speaking,  singing  yet,  as  in  their  day* 

of  glee  7 
Those  voices,  are  they  lovely  still,  still  sweet  on 

earth  or  sea  ?— 
Oh  I  some  are  hush'd,  and  some  are  changed,  and 

never  shall  one  strain 
Blend  their  fraternal  cadences  triumphantly  again 

And  of  the  hearts  that  here  were  link'd  by  Ion,, 

remember'd  years, 
Alas!  the  brother  knows  not  now  when  fall  the 

sister's  tears! 
One  haply  revels  at  the  feast,  while  one  may  droop 

alone, 
For  broken  is  the  household  chain,  the  bright  fire 

quench'd  and  gone  I 

Not  so— 't  is  not  a  broken  chain— thy  memory  bind* 

them  still, 
Thou  holy  Hearth  of  other  days,  though  silent  now 

and  chill  1 
The  smiles,  the  tears,  the  rites  beheld  by  thine 

attesting  stone, 
Have  yet  a  living  power  to  mark  thy  children  for 

thine  own. 

Th'>  father's  voice,  the  mother's  prayer,  though 

call'd  from  earth  away, 
With  music  rising  from  the  dead,  their  spirits  yet 

Khali  sway; 
And  by  the  past,  and  by  the  grave,  the  parted  yet 

are  one, 
Though  the  loved  Hearth  be  desolate,  the  bright 

fire  quench'd  and  gone  t 


THE  DREAMER. 


There  is  no  such  thing  at  far  getting  possible  to  th« 
mind  ;  a  thousand  accidents  miy,  and  will,  interpose  • 
veil  between  our  present  consciousness,  and  the  secret 
inscription  on  the  mind  ;  but  alike,  whetlier  veiled  or 
unveiled,  the  inscription  remain*  far  ever. 

Englitk  Opium-Eattr. 
Thou  btit  been  rill'd,  O  Sleep  !  the  friend  of  woe, 
But  t  >•  the  kappy  who  ban  call'd  tbee  w. 


PEACE  to  thy  dreams  V-thou  an  slumbering  now, 
The  moonlight's  calm  is  upon  thy  brow  ; 


HBMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


All  the  deep  love  that  o'erflows  thy  breast, 
Lies  'iridst  the  hush  of  thy  heart  at  rest, 
Like  the  scent  of  a  flower  in  its  folded  bell, 
When   eve   through   the  woodland!-   hath  sigh'd 
farewell. 

Peace  ! — the  sad  memories  that  through  the  day, 

With  a  weight  on  thy  lonely  bosom  lay, 

The  sudden  thoughts  of  the  changed  and  dead, 

J'hnt  bow'd  thee,  as  winds  bow  the  willow's  head, 

fhe  yearnings  for  faces  and  voices  gone — 

All  are  forgotten  !— Sleep  on,  sleep  on  I 

Are  they  forgotten  ?— It  is  not  so ! 

Slumber  divides'  the  heart  from  its  woe. 

E'en  now  o'er  thine  aspect  swift  changes  pass, 

Like  lights  and  shades  over  wavy  grass: 

Trembles!  thou,  Dreamer?— O  love  and  grief! 

Ye  have  storms  that  shake  e'en  the  closed-up  leaf! 

On  thy  parted  lips  there's  a  quivering  thrill, 

As  on  a  lyre  ere  its  chords  are  still ; 

On  the  long  silk  lashes  that  fringe  thine  eye. 

There's  a  large  tear  gathering  heavily; 

A  rain  from  the  clouds  of  thy  spirit  press'd— 

Sorrowful  Dreamer  ? — this  is  not  rest ! 

It  is  Thought  at  work  amidst  buried  hours, 
It  is  Love  keeping  vigil  o'er  perish'd  flowers.— 
Oh!  we  bear  within  us  mysterious  things, 
Of  Memory  and  Anguish,  unfathom'd  spring* 
And  Passion,  those  gulf?  of  the  heart  to  fill, 
With  bitter  waves,  which  it  ne'er  may  still. 

Well  might  we  pause  ere  we  gave  them  sway, 
Flinging  the  peace  of  our  couch  away  ! 
Well  might  we  look  on  our  souls  in  fear. 
They  find  no  fount  of  oblivion  here! 
They  forget  not,  the  mantle  of  sleep  beneath— 
'low  know  we  if  under  the  wings  of  death  1 


THE  WINGS  OF  THE  DOVE. 


Oh!  that  I  had  UK  wings  of  a  dove,  that  I  might  flee  away  and 
teat  rat. 


OH  !  for  thy  wings,  thou  dove ! 
Now  sailing  by  with  sunshine  on  thy  breast; 

That,  borne  like  thee  above, 
I  too  might  flee  away,  and  be  at  rest ! 

Where  wilt  thou  fold  those  plumes, 
Bird  of  the  forest  shadows,  holiest  bird  1 

In  what  rich  leafy  glooms, 
By  the  sweet  voice  of  hidden  waters  stirr'd  ? 

Over  what  blessed  home, 
What  roof  with  dark,  deep,  summer  foliage  crown  *d, 

O !  fair  as  ocean's  foam ! 
Shall  thy  bright  bosom  shed  a  gleam  around  ? 

Or  seek'st  thou  some  old  shrine 
Of  nymph  or  saint,  no  more  by  votary  woo'd. 

Though  still,  as  if  divine. 
Breathing  a  spirit  o'er  the  solitude? 

Yet  wherefore  ask  thy  way  ? 
Itlest,  ever  blest,  whate'er  its  aim,  thou  art! 

Unto  the  greenwood  spray, 
Bearing  no  dark  remembrance  at  thy  heart! 

No  echoes  that  will  blend 
A  sadness  with  the  whispers  of  the  grove; 

No  memory  of  a  friend 
Far  off,  or  dead,  01  changed  to  thee,  thou  dove! 

Oh!  to  some  cool  recess 
Take,  take  me  with  thee  on  the  summer  wind. 

Leaving  the  weariness 
And  all  the  fever  of  this  life  behind: 

The  aching  and  the  void 
Within  the  heart,  whereunto  nonerepljr. 

The  young  bricht  hopes  dectroy'd — 
Bird  !  tear'me  with  thee  through  the  sunny  *kyf 


Wild  wkih,  and  longing  vain. 
And  brief  ill/springing  to  be  glad  and  f'ee! 

Go  to  thy  woodland  reign  1 
My  soul  is  bound  and  hold  — I  may  not  flee 

For  even  by  all  the  fears 

And  thoughts  that  haunt  my  dreams — untold,  UB 
known, 

And  burning  woman's  tears, 
Pour'd  from  mine  eyes  in  silence  and  alone; 

Had  I  thy  wings,  thou  dove  I 
High  'mi. 1st  the  gorgeous  Isles  of  Cloud  to  soar, 

Soon  the  strong  cords  of  love 
Would     draw    me    earthwards— homeward* — yet 
once  more. 


PSYCHE  BORNE  BY  ZEPHYRS  TO  THE 
ISLAND  OF  PLEASURE* 


Souvent  Tame,  foriiKee  par  la  contemplation  dea 
choses  divines,  voudroit  deployer  seg  diles  vera  le  ciel 
Elle  croit  qu'au  terme  de  sa  carriere  un  rideau  va  s« 
lever  pour  lui  decouvrir  <!es  scenes  de  lumiere :  mait 
quand  la  inert  louche  son  corps  perissnble,  elle  jette  un 
regard  en  arriere  vers  les  pluisirs  terrestres  et  vera  set 
compagnes  mortelles. — Schlegel. 

Translated  by  Madame  de  Staet. 


FEARFDMY  and  mournfully 
Thou  bidd'st  the  enrth  farewell, 

And  yet  thou  'rt  passing,  loveliest  one 
In  a  brighter  land  to  dwell. 

Ascend,  ascend  rejoicing! 

The  sunshine  of  that  shore 
Around  thee,  as  a  glorious  robe. 

Shall  stream  for  evermore. 

The  breezy  music  wandering 
There  through  th'  Elysian  sky. 

Hath  no  deep  tone  that  seems  to  float 
From  a  happier  time  gone  by : 

And  there  the  day's  last  crimson 
Gives  no  sad  memories  birth, 

No  thought  of  dead  or  distant  friend*. 
Or  partings — as  on  earth. 

Yet  fearfully  and  mournfully 
Thou  bidd'st  that  eari.'i  larewell. 

Although  thou'rt  passing,  loveliest  one  I 
la  a  brighter  land  to  dwell. 

A  land  where  all  is  deathless — 

The  sunny  wave's  repose, 
The  wood  with  its  rich  melodies, 

The  summer  and  its  rose. 

A  land  that  sees  no  parting. 
That  hears  no  sound  of  sighs. 

That  waits  thee  with  immortal  air — 
Lift,  lift  those  anxious  eyes  ! 

Oh !  how  like  thee,  thou  trembler ! 

Man's  spirit  fondly  clings 
With  timid  love,  to  this,  its  world 

Of  old  familiar  things ! 

We  pant,  we  thirst  for  fountains 

That  gush  not  here  below  ! 
On,  on  we  toil,  allured  by  dream* 

Of  the  living  water's  flow  : 

We  pine  for  kindred  nature* 

To  mingle  with  our  own  ; 
For  communing*  more  full  and  high 

Than  aught  by  mortal  known  : 

We  strive  with  brief  aspirings 
Against  our  bounds  in  vain  ; 

Yet  summon'd  to  he  free  at  last, 
We  shrink— and  clasp  our  chain  ! 


•  Written  for  a  picture  in  which  Psyche,  on  her  flight  npwarfr 
•  represented  lookioj  back  «adljr  and  aaliouilv  to  the  earth. 


HEStANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


34] 


And  fearfully  and  mournfully 

We  bid  the;  earth  farewell, 
Though  passing  from  its  mists,  like  thee, 

In  a  brighter  world  to  dwell. 


THE  BOON  OF  MEMORY. 


Miny  things  aruwered  aii.—Hanfrtd. 


I  oo,  I  go!— and  must  mine  image  fade 

From  the  green  spots  wherein  my  childhood  play'd. 

By  my  own  streams  ? 

Must  my  life  purl  from  each  familiar  place. 
As  a  bird's  song,  that  leaves  the  woods  no  trace 

Of  its  lone  themes? 

Will  the  friend  pass  my  dwelling,  and  forget 
The  welcomes  there,  the  hours  when  we  have  me 

In  grief  or  glee  ? 

All  thi;  sweet  counsel,  the  communion  high. 
The  kindly  words  of  trust,  in  days  gone  by, 

Pour'd  full  and  free? 

A  boon,  a  talisman,  O  Memory!  give, 

To  shrine  my  name  in  hearts  where  I  would  liVb 

For  evermore ! 

Bid  the  wind  speak  of  me  where  I  have  dwelt. 
Bid  the  stream's  voice,  of  all  my  soul  hath  felt, 

A  thought  restore! 

In  the  rich  rose,  whose  bloom  I  loved  so  well, 
In  the  dim  brooding  violet  of  the  dell. 

Set  deep  that  thought ! 
And  let  the  sunset's  melancholy  glow, 
And  let  the  spring's  first  whisper,  faint  and  low, 

With  me  be  fraught: 

And  Memory  a  nswer'd  me : — "  Wild  wish  ami  vain 
?  have  no  hues  the  loveliest  to  detain 

In  the  heart 'score. 

The  place  they  held  in  bosoms  all  their  own, 
Goon  with  new  shadows  filPd.  new  flowers  o'er- 
grown, 

Is  theirs  no  morel" 

Hast  (Aon  such  {lower,  O  Love  ? — And  Love  replied, 
"  It  is  not  mine  !    Pour  out  thy  soul's  full  tide 

Of  hope  and  trust. 

Prayer,  tear,  devotedness,  that  boon  to  gain — 
"I'is  hut  to  write,  with  the  heart's  Aery  rain, 

Wild  words  on  dust !" 

Bong,  is  the  gift  with  thee  ? — I  ask  a  lay, 
Soli,  fervent,  deep,  that  will  not  pass  away 

From  the  still  breast ; 

FilI'd  with  a  tone — oh  !  not  for  deathless  fame, 
But  a  sweet  haunting  murmur  of  my  name, 

Where  it  would  rest. 

And  Song  made  answer — "  It  is  not  in  me, 
Though  call'd  immortal ;  though  my  gifts  may  bo 

All  but  divine. 

A  place  of  lonely  brightness  I  can  give ; — 
A  changeless  one,  where  thou  with  Love  wouldst 
live — 

This  is  not  mine!" 

Death,  Death!  wilt  thou  the  restless  wish  fulfil  1 
And  Death,  the  Strong  One,  spoke:—"!  can  but 
still 

Each  vain  regret. 

What  if  forgotten  ? — All  thy  soul  would  crave, 
Thou  too.  within  the  mantle  of  the  grave, 

Wilt  soon  forget." 

Then  did  my  heart  in  lone  faint  sadness  die, 
As  from  all  nature's  voices  one  reply, 

But  one,  was  given: — 

"Earth  has  no  heart,  fond  dreamer!  with  a  tone 
Tc  send  thee  back  the  spirit  of  thine  own — 

Seek  it  in  ffrnvru  " 


THE  HOMES  OF  ENGLAND. 


W here  >i  the  coward  that  would  notilira 
To  fight  for  r ui:!i  >  hod  ? 

Mormon. 

THE  stately  Homes  of  England, 

How  beautiful  they  stand! 
Amidst  their  tall  ancestral  trees,  . 

O'er  all  the  pleasant  land. 
The  deer  across  their  greensward  bound 

Through  shade  and  sunny  gleam. 
And  the  swan  glides  past  them  with  the  sound 

Of  some  rejoicing  stream. 

The  merry  Homes  of  England  I 

Around  their  hearths  by  night, 
What  gladsome  looks  of  household  love 

Meet  in  the  ruddy  light! 
There  woman's  voice  flows  forth  in  scng, 

Or  childhood's  tale  is  told, 
Or  lips  move  tunefully  along 

Some  glorious  page  of  old. 

The  blessed  Homes  of  England! 

How  softly  on  their  bowers 
Is  laid  the  holy  quietness 

That  breathes  from  Sabbath  hours! 
Solemn,  yet  sweet,  the  church-bell's  chime 

Floats  through  their  woods  at  morn; 
All  other  sounds,  in  that  still  time. 

Of  breeze  and  leaf  are  born. 

The  Cottage  Homes  of  England  I 

By  thousands  on  her  plains. 
They  are  smiling  o'er  the  silvery  brooks, 

And  round  the  hamlet  fanes. 
Through  glowing  orchards  forth  they  peep 

Each  from  its  nook  of  leaves. 
And  fearless  there  the  lowly  sleep, 

As  the  bird  beneath  th-ir  eaves 

The  free,  fair  Homes  of  England  1 

Long,  long,  in  hut  and  hall. 
May  hearts  of  native  pro  if  be  rear'd  i 

To  guard  each  hallow'd  wall! 
And  green  for  ever  be  the  groves. 

And  bright  the  flowery  sod, 
Where  first  the  child's  glad  spirit  loves, 

Its  country  and  its  God  I 


THE  SICILIAN  CAPTIVE. 


[  hare  dreamt  thou  wert 
A  captive  in  thy  hopeletsneti ;  afar 
From  the  tweet  home  of  thy  young  infancy. 
Whoie  image  unto  thee  is  is  a  dream 
Of  fire  and  ilaughter;  I  can  ice  the*  wistitg, 
Sick  fur  th?  native  air. 

L.  E.  L. 


THE  champions  had  com.-  from  their  fields  of  war. 

Over  the  crests  of  the  billows  far — 

They  had  brought  back  the  spoils  of  a  hundred 

shores. 
Where  the  deep  had  foam'd  to  their  flashing  oar? 

They  sat  at  their  feast  round   the  Norse  kin.*! 

hoard; 

By  the  glare  of  the  torch-light  the  mead  was  pour'd ; 
The  hearth  was  heap'd  with  the  pine-boughs  lush, 
And  it  flung  a  red  radiance  on  shields  thrown  by 

The  Scalds  had  chanted  in  Runic  rhvme 
Their  songs  of  the  sword  and  the  olden  time  ; 
And  the  solemn  thrill,  as  the  harp-chords  rung, 
Had  breathed  from  the  walls  where  the  bright 
spears  hung. 

But  the  swell  was  gone  from  the  quivering  string 
They  had  summon'd  a  softer  voice  to  sing, 
And  a  captive  girl  at  the  warriors'  call. 
Stood  forth  in  the  midst  of  that  frowning  hall 


342 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Lonely  she  stood  :— in  her  mournful  eyes 
Lay  the  clear  midnight  of  southern  skies; 
And  the  drooping  fringe  of  their  lashes  low, 
Half  veil'd  a  depth  of  unfathom'd  woe 

Stately  she  stood — though  her  fragile  frame 
Seera'd  struck  with  the  blight  of  some  inward 

flame ; 

Arid  her  proud,  pale  brow  had  a  shade  of  scorn, 
Under  the  waves  of  her  dark  hair  worn. 

And  a  deep  flush  pass'd,  like  a  crimson  haze. 
O'er  her  marble  clitjk  by  the  pine  fire's  blaze; 
No  soft  hue  caught  from  the  south  wind's  breath. 
But  a  token  of  fever,  at  strife  with  death. 

She  had  been  torn  from  her  home  away. 
With  her  long  locks  crown'd  for  her  bridal  day, 
And  brought  to  die  of  the  burning  dreams 
That  haunt  the  exile  by  foreign  streams. 

They  bade  her  sing  of  her  distant  land- 
She  held  its  lyre  with  a  trembling  hand, 
Till  the  spirit  its  blue  skies  had  given  her,  woke, 
And  the  stream  of  her  voice  into  music  broke. 

Faint  was  the  strain,  in  its  first  wild  flow; 

Troubled  its  murmur,  and  sad,  and  low; 

But  it  swell'd  into  deeper  power  ere  long, 

As  the  breeze  that  swept  o'er  her  soul  grew  strong. 


"  They  bid  me  sing  of  thee,  mine  own,  my  sunny 

land !  of  thee ! 
Am  I  not  parted  from  thy  shores  by  the  mournful 

sounding  sea  ? 
Doth  not  thy  shadow  wrap  my  soul  ? — in  silence 

let  me  die, 
In  a  voiceless  dream  of  thy  silvery  founts,  and  thy 

pure,  deep  sapphire  sky  ; 
How  should  thy  lyre  give  here  il  s  wealth  of  buried 

sweetness  forth  ? 
Its  tones  of  summer's  breathings  born,  to  the  wild 

winds  of  the  north? 

Yet  thus  it  shall  be  once,  once  more!— my  spirit 

shall  awake. 
And  through  the  mists  of  death  shine  out,  my 

country,  for  thy  sake ! 
That  I  may  make  t/iee  known,  with  all  the  beauty 

and  the  light. 
And  the  glory  never  more  to  bless  thy  daughter'* 

yearning  sight! 
Thy  woods  shall  whisper  in  my  song,  thy  onght 

streams  warble  by. 
Thy  soul  flow  o'er  my  lips  again— yet  once,  my 

Sicily  I 

"There  are  blue  heavens— far  hence,  far  hence) 

but,  oh !  their  glorious  blue  ! 
Us  very  night   is  beautiful,  with  the  hyacinth's 

deep  hue ! 
Il  is  above  my   own  fair  land,  and  round  my 

laughing  home. 
And  arching  o'er  my  vintage  hills,  they  hang  their 

cloudless  dome ; 
And  making  all  the  waves  as  gems,  that  melt  along 

the  shore, 
And  steeping  happy  hearts  in  joy— that  now  is 

mine  no  more. 

"And  there  are  haunts  in  that  green  land— ohl 
who  may  dream  or  te 

Of  all  the  shaded  loveliness  ;t  hides  in  grot  and 
dell? 

By  fountains  flinging  rainbow-spray  on  dark  and 
glossy  leaves. 

And  bowers  wherein  the  forest-dove  her  nest  un- 
troubled  weaves ; 

The  myrtle  dwells  there,  sending  round  the  rich- 
ness of  its  breath. 

And  the  violets  gleam  like  amethysts,  from  the 
dewy  moss  beneath. 

"  And  there  are  floating  sounds  that  AH  the  skies 
through  night  and  day — 


Sweet  sounds!  the  soul  to  hear  them  faints  in 

dreams  of  heaven  away  I 
They  wander  through  the  olive  woods,  and  o'ef 

the  shining  seas — 
They  mingle  with  the  orange-scents  that  load  tlw 

sleepy  breeze ; 
Lute,  voice,  and  bird,  are  blending  there;— it  were 

a  bliss  to  die, 
As  dies  a  leaf,  thy  groves  among,  iny  flowery  Sicily  I 

"/  may  not  thus  depart  — farewell!  yet  no,  my 

country !  no ! 
Is  not  love  stronger  than  the  grave?    I  feel  it 

must  be  so ! 
My  fleeting  spirit  shall  o'ersweep  the  mountains 

and  the  main, 
And  in  thy  tender  starlight  rove,  and  through  thy 

woods  again. 
Its   passion   deepens— it  prevails!  — I  break  my 

chain — I  come 
To  dwell  a  viewless  thing,  yet  blest— in  thy  sweet 

air,  my  home  t" 


And  her  pale  arms  dropp'd  the  ringing  lyre — 
There  came  a  mist  o'er  her  eye's  wild  fire — 
And  her  dark  rich  tresses,  in  many  a  fold, 
Loosed  from  their  braids,  down  her  bosom  roll'd. 

For  her  head  sank  back  on  the  rugged  wall--- 

A  silence  fell  o'er  the  warrior's  hall; 

She  had  pour'd  out  her  soul  with  her  song's  irsl 

tone; 
The  lyre  was  broken,  the  minstrel  gone  I 


IVAN  THE  CZAR. 


"  Ivan  le  Terrible,  etant  deja  devenu  vieux,  assiegart 
Novogorod.  Lea  Boyards,  le  voyant  atfuibli,  lui  de- 
nvmdorent  s'il  ne  roulait  pas  donner  le  commandement 
de  I'liHaaut  a  son  fils.  Sa  fureur  fut  si  grande  a  cell* 
proposition,  que  rien  ne  put  I'appaiscr;  son  fils  se  pros- 
terna  a  sea  pieda ;  il  le  repousaa  avec  un  coup  d'una 
telle  violence,  que  deux  jours  aprea  le  malbeureuz  en 
muurut.  Le  pere,  aiors  au  deaeapoir,  dcvint  indifferent 
a  la  guerre  comme  au  pouvoir,  et  ne  survecut  que  pea 

de  mois  a  son  fils." Dii  Jlnnees  d"  Exil,  par  Madam* 

de  Stael. 


iir  he 


Ich  muH 


Gieb  diewn  Todti 

Ihn  wicder  habrn!  »  •  • 

*  •  *  TrostloM  allmacht, 

Verlangera,  eine  kleiue  Ubereildng 

Mil  MeMchenlibea  nieht  verbeaern  karji  1 

SdWkr 


HB  sat  in  silence  on  the  ground, 

The  old  and  haughty  Czar, 
Lonely,  though  princes  girt  him  round, 

And  leaders  of  the  war : 
He  had  cast  his  jewell'd  sabre, 

That  man)  a  field  had  won, 
To  the  earth  beside  his  youthful  dead— 

His  fair  and  first-born  ion. 

With  a  robe  of  ermine  for  its  bed, 

Was  laid  that  form  of  clay, 
Where  the  light  a  stormy  sunset  shed 

Through  the  rich  tent  made  way; 
And  a  sad  ami  solemn  beauty 

On  the  paili.l  face  came  down, 
Which  the  lord  of  nations  mutely  walch'd. 

In  tie  dust,  with  his  renown. 


REMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


343 


Low  tones,  at  last,  of  woe  and  fear 

From  his  full  bosom  broke— 
A  mournful  thing  it  was  to  hear 

How  then  the  proud  man  spoke! 
The  voice  that  through  the  combat 

Had  shouted  far  and  high, 
Came  forth  in  strange,  dull,  hollow  tone*, 

Burden'd  with  agony. 

"  There  is  no  crimson  on  thy  cheek, 

And  on  thy  lip  no  breath  ; 
I  rail  thee,  and  thou  dost  not  speak—- 
They tell  me  this  is  death! 
And  fearful  things  are  whispering 

That  I  the  deed  have  done- 
Fur  the  honour  of  thy  father's  name, 
I,ook  up,  look  up,  liny  son  ! 

••  Well  might  I  know  death's  hue  and  mien, 

But  on  thine  aspect,  boy! 
What,  till  this  moment,  have  I  seen 

Save  pride  and  tameless  joy? 
Swiftest  thou  wert  to  battle. 

And  bravest  there  of  all — 
How  could  I  think  a  warrior's  frame 

Thus  like  a  flower  should  fall? 

"  I  will  not  bear  that  still  cold  look—  . 

Rise  up,  thou  fierce  and  free! 
Wake  as  the  storm  wakes!  I  will  brook 

All,  save  this  calm,  from  thee! 
Lift  brightly  up,  and  proudly, 

Once  more  thy  kindling  eyesl 
Hath  my  word  lost  its  power  on  earth  1 

I  say  to  thee,  arise ! 

"  Didst  thou  not  know  I  loved  thee  weUl 

Thou  didst  not !  and  art  gone. 
In  bitterness  of  soul,  to  dwell 

Where  man  must  dwell  alone. 
Come  back,  young  fiery  spirit ! 

If  but  one  hour,  to  learn 
The  secrets  of  the  folded  heart 

That  seem'd  to  thee  so  stern 

"  Thou  wert  the  first,  the  first,  fair  child, 

That  in  mine  arms  I  press'd' 
Thou  wert  the  bright  one,  that  hast  smiled 

Like  summer  on  my  breast  I 
f  rear'd  thee  as  an  eagle 

To  the  chase  thy  steps  I  led, 
I  bore  thee  on  my  battle-horse, 

I  look  upon  thee — dead! 

•*  Lay  down  my  warlike  banners  here, 

Vever  again  to  wave. 
And  bury  my  red  sword  and  spear. 

Chiefs!  in  my  first-born's  grave! 
And  .leave  me! — I  have  conquer'd, 

I  have  slain— my  work  is  done  ! 
Whom  have  I  slain  ? — ye  answer  not-* 

Thou  too  art  mute,  my  son !" 

And  thus  his  wild  lament  was  pour'd 

Through  the  dark  resounding  night, 
And  the  battle  knew  no  more  his  sword, 

Nor  the  foaming  steed  his  might. 
He  heard  strange  voices  moaning 

In  every  wind  that  sigh'd  ; 
From  the  searching  stars  of  heaven  he  shrank- 

Humbly  the  conqueror  died. 


CAROLAN'S  PROPHECY.* 


Thy  theek  too  swiftly  flushes,  o'er  thine  eye 
The  lighti  and  shadows  come  and  go  loo  (at, 
Thy  tears  gush  forth  too  soon,  and  in  thy  voice- 
Arc  sounds  of  tenderness  too  passionate 
For  peace  on  earth ;  oh  !  therefore,  child  of  tonf ! 
T  is  well  thou  shouldst  depart. 

A  sormn  of  music,  from  amidst  the  hill*, 
Came  suddenly,  and  died  ;  a  fitful  sound 
Of  mirth,  soon  lost  in  wail. — Again  it  IOBO, 


|   And  sank  in  mournfulness.— There  sat  •  bard 
By  a  blue  stream  of  Erin,  where  it  swept 
Flashing  through  rock  and  wood ;  the  sunset's  light 
Was  on  his  wavy,  silver-gleaming  hair. 
And  the  wind's  whisper  in  the  mountain  nsh. 
Whose  clusters  droop'd  above.  His  head  was  bowV 
His  hand  was  on  his  harp,  yet  thence  its  touch 
Had  drawn  but  broken  strains;  and  many  stood, 
Waiting  around,  in  silent  earnestness, 
TIV  uncnaining  of  his  soul,  the  gush  of  song — 
Many  and  graceful  forms !— yet  one  alone 
Soem'd  present  to  his  dream  ;  and  she,  indeed, 
With  her  pale,  virgin  brow,  and  changefut^cheelt. 
And  the  clear  starlight  of  her  serious  eye% 
Lovely  amidst  the  flowing  of  dark  locks 
And  pallid  braiding  flowers,  was  beautiful. 
E'en  painfully !— a  creature  to  behold 
With  trembling  'midst  our  joy,  lest  aught  unseen 
Should  waft  the  vision  from  vis,  leaving  earth 
Too  dim  without  its  brightness!—  Did  such  fear 
O'ershadow  in  that  hour  the  gifted  one, 
By  his  own  rushing  stream  ?—  Once  more  he  gazed 
Upon  th,!  radiant  girl,  and  yet  once  more 
From  the  deep  chords  his  wandering  hand  brought 

out 

A  few  short  festive  notes,  an  opening  strain 
Of  bridal  melody,  soon  dash'd  with  grief. 
As  if  some  wailing  spirit  in  the  strings 
Met  and  o'ermaster'd  him  :  but  yielding  then 
To  the  strong  prophet-impulse,  mournfully, 
Like  moaning  waters,  o'er  the  harp  he  pour'd 
The  trouble  of  his  haunted  soul,  and  sang — 

Voice  of  the  grave  1 

I  hear  thy  thrilling  call ; 
It  comes  in  the  dash  of  the  foaming  wave, 

In  the  sere  leaf's  trembling  full  I 
In  the  shiver  of  the  tree, 

I  hear  thee,  O  thou  voice  ! 
And  I  would  thy  warning  were  but  for  me, 

That  my  spirit  might  rejoice. 

But  thou  art  sent 

For  the  sad  earth's  young  and  fair, 
For  the  graceful  heads  that  have  not  bent 

To  the  wintry  hand  of  care  ! 
They  hear  the  wind's  low  sigh, 

And  the  river  sweeping  free. 
And  the  green  reeds  murmuring  heavily. 

And  the  woods — but  they  hear  not  thee  I 

Long  have  I  striven 

With  my  deep  foreboding  soul, 
But  the  full  tide  now  its  bounds  hath  riven, 

And  darkly  on  must  roll. 
There's  a  young  brow  smiling  near. 

With  a  bridal  white  rose  wreath — 
Unto  me  it  smiles  from  a  flowery  bier, 

Touch'd  solemnly  by  death  1 

Fair  art  thou,  Morna! 
The  sadness  of  thine  eye 

Is  beautiful  as  silvery  clouds 
On  the  dark  blue  summer  sky; 

And  thy  voice  comes  like  the  sound 
Of  a  sweet  and  hidden  rill. 

That  makes  the  dim  woods  tuneful  round- 
But  soon  it  must  be  still  I 

Silence  and  dust 

On  thy  sunny  lips  must  lie — 
Make  not  the  strength  of  love  thy  truit, 

A  stronger  yet  is  night 
No  strain  of  festal  flow 

That  my  hand  for  thee  hath  tried. 
But  into  dirge  notes  wild  and  low 

Its  ringing  tones  have  died. 

Young  art  thou,  Morna  I 

Yet  on  thy  gentle  head, 
Like  heavy  dew  on  the  lily's  leaven, 

A  spirit  hath  been  shed  ! 
And  the  glance  is  thine  which  see* 

Through  nature's  awful  heart — 
But  bright  things  go  with  the  summer  breero. 

And  thou  too  must  depart! 


*  Founded  on  a  circumstance  related  of  the  Iron  Bard,  ic  the 
fercy  Anecdotes  of  Imagination. 


844 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  shall  I  weep  ? 

I  know  that  in  thy  breast 
There  swells  a  fount  of  song  too  deep, 

Too  powerf.il  for  thy  rest ! 
And  the  bitterness  1  know. 

And  the  chill  of  this  world's  breath- 
Go,  all  iitidimm'd,  in  thy  glory  go  ! 

Young  and  crown'd  bricle  of  death  ! 

Take  hence  to  heaven 

Thy  holy  thoughts  and  bright, 
And  soaring  hopes,  that  were  not  given 

Forthe  touch  of  in  rt:il  blight1 
Might  we  follow  in  thy  track, 

This  parting  should  not  lie  ! 
But  the  spring  shall  give  us  violets  back. 

And  every  flower  but  thee  ! 

There  was  a  burst  of  tears  around  the  bard: 
All  wept  but  one,  and  she  serenely  stood, 
With  her  clear  brow  and  dark  religious  eye 
Raised  to  the  first  faint  star  above  the  hiils. 
And  cloudless  ;  though  it  might  lie  that  her  chee)> 
Was  paler  than  befi-re.— So  Morna  heard  . 

The  minstrel's  prophecy. 

And  spring  return'd. 

Bringing  the  earth  her  lovely  things  again. 
All,  save  the  loveliest  far  !  A  voice,  a  smile, 
A  young  sweet  spirit  gone. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  CASTLE. 

FROM    THE   "  PORTRAIT  GALLERY,"    AN    UNFINISHED 

MM. 


If  there  be  but  one  ipot  upon  thjr  name, 

One  eye  thou  fear'sl  to  meet,  one  kuman  roice 

Whose  tones  thou  shrink'st  froiu— Woman  !  veil  thy  fat*. 

.And  bow  thy  head— ami  die  ! 

THOO  see'st  her  pictured  with  her  shining  hair, 

(Famed  were  those  tresses  in  Provencal  sons?,) 
Half  braided,  half  o'er  her  cheek  and  bosom  fair 

Let  loose,  and  pouring  sunny  waves  along 
Her  gorgeous  vest.     A  child's  li.jhi  nand  is  rovin 
'Midst  the  rich  curls  ;  and,  oh  !  how  meekly  loving 
Its  earnest  looks  are  lifted  to  the  face 
Which  bends  to  meet  its  li|>  in  laughing  grace! 
Yet  that  bright  lady's  eye,  methinks,  hath  less 
Of  deep,  and  still,  and  pensive  tenderness, 
Than  might  beseem  a  mother's  ; — on  her  brow 

Something  too  much  there  sits  of  native  scorn, 
And  her  smile  kindles  with  a  conscious  glow. 

As  from  the  thought  of  sovereign  beauty  born. 
These  may  be  dreams — but  how  shall  woman  tell 
Of  woman's  shame,  and  not  with  tears  ?— She  fell ! 
That  mother  left  that  child  ! — went  hurrying  by 
Its  cradle— haply  not  without  a  sigh, 
Haply  one  moment  o'er  its  rest  serene 
Shj  hung — but,  no!  it  could  not  thus  have  been. 
For  s/ic  went  en ! — forsook  her  home,  her  hearth, 
All  pure  afiu&on,  all  sweet  household  mirth. 
To  live  a  gaudy  and  dishonour'd  thing, 
Sharing  in  guilt  the  splendours  of  a  king. 

Her  lord,  in  very  weariness  of  life. 

Girt  on  his  sword  for  scenes  of  distant  strife; 

He  reck'd  no  more  of  glory  :— grief  and  shame 

Crush'd  out  his  fiery  nature,  and  his  name 

Died  silently.     A  shadow  o'er  his  halls 

Crept  year  by  year ;  the  minstrel  pa>s'd  their  walls ; 

The  warder's  horn  hung  mute :— meantime  the 

child, 

On  whose  first  flowering  thoughts  no  parent  smiled, 
A  gentle  girl,  and  yet  deep-hearted,  grew 
Into  sad  youth;  for  well,  too  well,  she  knew 
Her  mother's  tale '  Its  memory  made  the  sky 
Seem  all  too  joyous  for  her  shrinking  eye; 
Check'd  on  her  lip  the  flow  of  song,  which  fain 
Would  there  have  linger'd;  flush'd  her  cheek  to 

pain 

If  met  by  sudden  glance  ;  and  gave  a  tone 
Of  sorrow,  as  for  something  lovely  gone, 
E'en  to  the  spring's  glad  voice.    Her  own  was  low 
And  plaintive. — Oh!  there  lie  such  depths  of  woe 
tn  a  young-  blighted  spirit !    Manhood  rears 
A  haughty  brow,  and  age  has  done  with  tears ; 


But  youth  bows  down  to  misery,  in  amaze 
At  the  dark  cloud  o'ermantling  its  fresh  day*— 
And  thus  it  was  with  her.    A  mournful  sight 

In  one  so  fair— for  she  indeed  was  lair- 
Not  with  her  mother's  dazzling  eyes  of  light, 

Hers  were  more  shadowy,  full  of  thought  and 

nrayer, 

And  with  long  lashes  o'er  a  white  rose  'iieek, 
Drooping  in  gloom,  yet  tender  still  a^.d  meek, 
Still  that  fond  child's— and,  oh.  Ihr  brjw  above 
So  pale  and  pure !  so  forin'd  for  lioly  iove 
To  gaze  upon  in  silence  !—  But  she  felt 
That   love  was  not  for  her,  though  hearts  would 

melt 

Where'er  she  moved,  and  reverence  mutely  given 
Went  with  her;  and  low  prayers,  that  call'd  on 

Heaven 
To  bless  the  young  Isaure. 

One  sunny  morn. 

With  aim?  before  her  castle  gate  she  stood, 
'Midst  peas)  .u  groups  ;  when,  breathless  and  o'ei 

worn 

And  shrr  jded  in  long  weeds  of  widowhood, 
A  stranger  through  them  broke:— the  orphan  maid 
With  hei  yweet  v<.)ce  and  profler'd  hand  of  aid, 
Turn'd  to  give  welcome ;  but  a  wild  sad  look 
iVlet  IHT;      a  gaze  ilia'  all  her  spirit  shook  ; 
And  ilia i  pale  woman,  suddenly  subdued 
By  some  strong  passion  in  its  gushing  mood. 
Knelt  at  her  feet,  and  bathed  them  with  such  teari 
As  rain  the  hoarded  agonies  of  years 
From   tin1   heart's  urn  ;  end   with  ))<;r  white  lips 

press'd 

The  ground  they  wod  ;  then,  burying  in  her  vest 
Her  brow's  deep  Hush,  sobb'd  out — "  Oh  !  u ndeliled, 
I  am  thy  mother— spurn  im  not,  my  child!" 

sau re  had  prny'd  for  that  lost  mother;  wept 
O'er  her  stain'd  memory,  while  the  happy  slept 
In  the  hush'd  midnight  ;  stood  with  mournful  gay* 
Before  yon  picture's  smile  of  other  davs. 
But  never  breathed  in  human  ear  the  name 
Which  weigh'd  her  being  to  the  earth  witfr  shame. 

What  marvel  if  the  anguish,  the  surprise. 
The  dark  remembrances,  the  alter'd  guise, 
Awhile  o'erpower'd  her  ?— from  tl«e  weeper's  touch 
She  shrank — 'twas  but  u  moment -yet  too  much 
For  that  all-humbled  one  ;  its  mortal  stroke 
Came  down  like  lightning,  and  her  full  heart  '-roka 
At  once  in  silence.     Heavily  and  prone 
She  sank,  while  o'er  Iwr  castle's  threslmld  ston«;. 
Those  long  fair  tresses— they  still  brightly  wor^ 
Their  early  pride,  though  bound  with   pearls  »»• 

more — 

Bursting  their  fillet,  in  sad  beauty  roll'd. 
And  swept  the  dust  with  coils  of  wavy  gold. 

Her  child  ben  t  o'er  her—  call'd  her — 'Twastnolatt  • 
Dead  lay  the  wanderer  at  her  own  proud  gate  ' 
The  joy  of  courts,  the  star  of  knight  and  bard — 
How  didst  thou  fall,  O  bright-hair'd  Enuenpard*  I 


THE  MOURNER  FOR  THE  BARMECIDE* 


A  good  old  man  !  how  well  in  thee  a]<pean 
The  constant  service  of  the  antique  world '. 
Thou  art  not  for  the  fashion  of  these  limt*. 

jtt  You  JUA«  It. 


FALL'N  was  the  House  of  Giafnr;  and  its  name 
The  high  romantic  name  of  Barmecide, 
A  sound  forbidden  on  its  own  bright  shores, 
By  the  swift  Tygns'  wave.   Stern  Haroun's  wr  »th, 
Sweeping  the  mighty  with  their  fame  away, 
Had  so  pass'd  sentence :  but  man's  clminlesfi  heart 
Hides  that  within  its  depths  which  never  yet 
Tli'  oppressor's  thought  could  reach. 

'Twas  desolate 

Where  Giafar's  halls,  beneath  the  hurnine  sun. 
Spread  out  in  ruin  lay.    The  song'  had  ceased  ; 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


345 


The  lights,  the  perfumes,  and  the  genii  tale* 
Had  teased  ;  the  guests  were  gone.    Yet  (till  one 

voice 
Was  there— the  fountain's;  through  those  eastern 

courts, 

Over  the  broken  marble  and  the  grass. 
Its  low  cl'".ir  music  shedding  mournfully. 

And  still  another  voice !— an  aged  man, 
Yet  with  a  dark  and  fervent  eye  beneath 
His  silvery  hair,  came,  day  by  day.  and  sate 
O'i  a  white  column's  fragment;  and  drew  forth, 
From  th.1  r.rsakeii  walls  and  dim  arcades, 
A  tone  that  shook  them  with  its  answering  thrill 
T<>  his  drop  accents.     Many  a  glorious  tale 
He  t<  I  I  thnl  sari  yet  stately  solitude, 
Pouring  his  memory's  fullness  o'er  its  gloom. 
Like  waters  in  the  waste.;  and  calling  up, 
By  so;ig  or  high  recital  of  their  deeds, 
Brisht  solemn  shadows  of  its  vanish'd  race 
To  people  their  own  halls:  with  these  alone, 
In  all  this  rich  and  breathing  world,  his  thoughts 
II  •!  I  still  unbroken  converse.     He  had  been 
R  rar'd  in  this  lordly  dwelling,  and  was  now 
The  ivy  of  its  ruins,  unto  which 
His  fading  life  seem'd  bound.     Day  rolPd  on  day, 
And  from  that  scene  the  loneliness  was  fled; 
For  crowds  around  the  gray-hair'd  chronicler 
Met  as  men  meet,  within  whose  anxious  hearts 
Pear  with  deep  feeling  strives;  till,  as  a  breeze 
Wanders  through  forest  branches,  and  is  met 
By  one  quick  sound  and  shiver  of  the  leaves. 
The  spirit  of  his  passionate  lament, 
As  through  their  stricken  souls  it  pass'd,  awoke 
One  echoing  murmur.— But  this  might  not  be 
Under  a  despot's  rule,  and  snmmon'd  thence, 
The  dreamer  stood  before  the  Caliph's  throne: 
Sentenced  to  death  he  stood,  and  deeply  pale, 
And  with  his  white  lips  rigidly  compress'd  ; 
Till,  in  submissive  tones,  he  ask'd  to  speak 
Once  more,  ere  thrust  from  earth's  fair  sunshine 

forth. 

Was  it.  to  sue  for  grace?— His  burning  heart 
Sprang,  with  a  sudden  lightning,  Co  his  eye, 
And  he  was  changed  ! — and  tins,  in  rapid  words, 
Th'  o'ermasteritig  thoughts,  more  strong  than  death, 

found  way. 

"  And  shall  I  not  rejoice  to  go,  when  the  noble  and 
the  brave, 

With  the  glory  on  their  brows,  are  gone  before  me 
to  the  grave  ? 

What  is  there  1>  ft  to  look  on  now,  what  bright- 
ness in  tin;  land? 

I  hold  in  scorn  I  lie  faded  world,  that  wants  their 
princely  band! 

M  My  chiefs !  my  chiefs  !  the  old  man  comes  that 

in  your  halls  was  nursed — 
That  follovv'd  you  to  many  a  fight,  where  flash'd 

your  sabres  first — 
That  bore  your  children  in  his  arms,  your  name 

upon  his  heart : — 
Ob  I  must  the  music  of  that  name  with  him  fron 

each  depart  ? 

14  It  shall  not.  be!  a  thousand  tongues,  though  hu- 
man voice  were  still, 

With  that  high  sound  the  living  air  triumphantly 
shall  fill ; 

Die  wind's  free  flight  shall  bear  it  on,  as  wander 
ing  seeds  are  sown, 

And  the  starry  midnight  whisper  it,  with  a  deep 
and  thrilling  tone. 

•  For  it  is  not  as  a  flower  whose  scent  with  the 

dropping  leaves  expires, 

And  it  is  not  as  a  household  lamp,  that  a  breath 
should  quench  its  Ares; 

It  is  written  on  our  battle-fields  with  the  writing 
of  the  sword, 

It  hath  left  upon  our  desert  sands  a  light  in  bless- 
ings pour'd. 

-  fhe  founts,  the  many  gushing  founts,  which  tc 

the  wild  ye  gave, 

O»  you ,  my  chiefs,  shall  sing  aloud,  as  they  pour  a 
joyous  wave  I 


And  the  groves,  with  whose  deep  lovely  gloom  ye 

hung  the  pilgrim's  way. 
Shall  send  from  all  their  sighing  leaves  your  praisoi 

on  the  day. 

"The  very  walls  your  bounty  rear'd  for  the  stran- 
ger's homeless  head, 

Shall  find  a  murmur  to  record  your  tale,  my  glorious 
dead ! 

Though  the  grass  be  where  ye  feasted  once,  where 
lute  and  cittern  rung, 

And  the  serpent  in  your  palaces  lie  roil'd  amidst 
its  young. 

"  It  is  enough  !  mine  eye  no  more  of  joy  or  splen- 
dour sees — 

I  leave  your  name  in  lofty  faith,  to  the  skies  and 
to  the  breeze ! 

I  go,  since  earth  her  flower  hath  lost,  to  join  the 
bright  and  fair. 

And  call  the  grave  a  kingly  house,  for  ye,  my  chiefs, 
are  there  1" 

But  while  the  old  man  sang,  a  mist  of  tears 
O'er  Haroun's  eyes  had  gather'd,  and  .1  thought — 
Oh !  many  a  sudden  and  remorseful  thought — 
Of  his  youth's  once  loved  friends,  the  marty/'d  race, 
O'erflow'd  his  softening  heart.— "  Live !  live  I"  he 

cried, 

"Thou  faithful  unto  death!  live  on,  and  still 
Speak  of  thy  lords — they  were  a  princely  band  I ' 


THE   CAPTIVE   KNIGHT. 


The  prison 'd  thrush  may  bronk  the  cage, 
The  captive  eagle  diet  for  rage. 

Lady  of  the  Lair. 

'T  was  a  trumpet's  pealing  sound  ! 
And  the  knight  look'd  down  from  the  Paynim's 

tower. 
And  a  Christian  host,  in  its  pride  and  power, 

Through  the  pass  beneath  him  wound. 
Cease  awhile,  clarion!    Clarion,  wild  and  shrill. 
Cease!  let  them  hear  the  captive's  voice — be  still  I 

"  I  knew  't  was  a  trumpet's  note  I 
And  I  see  my  brethren's  lances  gleam, 
And  their  pennons  wave  by  the  mountain  stream, 

And  their  plumes  to' the  glad  wind  float ! 
Cease  awhile,  clarion!    Clarion,  wild  and  shrill, 
Cease  !  let  them  hear  the  captive's  voice— be  still! 

"  I  am  here,  with  my  heavy  chain  I 
And  I  look  on  a  torrent  sweeping  by, 
And  an  eagle  rushing  to  the  sky. 
And  a  host  to  its  battle. plain ! 
Cease  awhile,  clarion  !   Clarion,  wild  and  shrill, 
Cease !  let  them  hear  the  captive's  voice — be  still ! 

"  Must  I  pine  in  my  fetters  here? 
With  the  wild  wind's  foam,  and  the  free  bird's 

flight, 
And  the  tall  spears  glancing  on  my  sight, 

And  the  trumpet  in  mine  ear? 
Cease  awhile,  clarion  !    Clarion,  wild  and  shrill, 
Cease  !  let  them  hear  tho  captive's  voice — be  still 

"  They  are  gone !  they  have  all  pass'd  by  I 
They  in  whose  wars  I  had  borne  my  part, 
They  that  I  loved  with  a  brother's  heart. 

They  have  left  me  here  to  die  1 
Sound  again,  clarion  !   Clarion,  pour  thy  blast ! 
Sound !  for  the  captive's  dream  of  hope  is  past." 


THE  SPANISH  CHAPEL.* 

Weep  not  for  thoM  whom  the  veil  of  the  tomb, 
In  life's  early  morning,  liath  hid  from  our  ryes, 

Ere  tin  threw  a  veil  o'er  the  spiritH  young  bloom, 
Or  earth  had  profaued  what  was  bom  for  lh«  skie*. 

Moor* 


I  MADE  a  mountain  brook  my  guide, 
Through  a  wild  Spanish  glen, 

*  Suggested  by  a  nene  beautifully  described  in  the  Ree.ileetio»  <rf 

the  Ft uinsula. 


S46 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  wander'd  on  its  grassy  tide, 
Far  from  the  homes  of  wen. 

It  lured  me  with  a  singing  tone, 

And  many  a  sunny  glance, 
To  a  erecn  spot  of  beauty  lone, 

A  haunt  for  old  romance. 

A  dim  and  deeply  bosom'd  grove 

Of  many  an  aged  tree, 
Such  as  the  shadowy  violets  love, 

The  fawn  and  forest  bee. 

The  darkness  of  the  chestnut  bough 

There  on  the  waters  lay, 
The  bright  stream  reverently  below 

Check'd  its  exulting  play; 

And  jore  a  music  all  subdued, 

And  led  a  silvery  sheen, 
On  through  the  breathing  solitude 

Of  that  rich  leafy  scene. 

For  something  viewlessly  around 

Of  solemn  influence  dwelt, 
In  the  soft  gloom  and  whispery  sound, 

Not  to  be  told,  but  felt: 

While  sending  forth  a  quiet  gleam 

Across  the  wood's  repose, 
And  o'er  the  twilight  of  the  stream. 

A  lonely  chapel  rose. 

A  pathway  to  that  still  retreat 
Through  many  a  myrtle  wound, 

And  there  a  sight—  how  strangely  sweet! 
My  steps  in  wonder  bound. 

For  on  a  brilliant  bed  of  flowers, 

E'en  at  the  threshold  made, 
As  if  to  sleep  through  sultry  hours, 

A  young  fair  child  was  laid. 

To  sleep  I—  oh!  ne'er  on  childhood's  eye 

And  silken  lashes  prcss'd, 
Did  the  warm  living  slumber  He 

With  such  a  weight  of  real  7 

Yet  still  a  tender  crimson  glow 
Its  cheek's  pure  marble  dyed— 

T  was  but  the  light's  faint  streaming  flow 
Through  roses  heap'd  beside. 

I  stoop'd—  the  smooth  round  arm  was  chill, 
The  soft  lip's  breath  was  fled, 

And  the  bright  ringlets  hung  so  still  — 
The  lovely  child  was  dead! 


But  then  a  voice  came  sweet  and  low  — 

I  turn'd,  and  near  me  sate 
A  woman  with  a  mourner's  brow, 

Pale,  yet  not  desolate. 

And  in  her  still,  clear,  matron  face, 

All  solemnly  serene, 
A  shadow'd  image  I  could  trace 

Of  that  young  slumberer's  mien. 

"Stranger!  thou  pitiest  me,"  she  said, 
With  lips  that  faintly  smiled, 

"As  here  I  watch'd  beside  my  dead, 
My  fair  and  precious  child. 

"But  know  the  time-worn  heart  may  be 

By  pangs  in  this  world  riven, 
Keener  than  theirs  who  yield,  like  me, 
»    An  argel  thus  to  Heaven  I" 
«* 


THE  KAISER'S  FEAST 


Louis,  Kmperor  of  Germany,  having  put  hw  broihe> 
the  Palsgrave  Rodolphua,  under  the  ban  of  the  empire 
in  the  twelfth  century,  that  unfortunate  prince  fled  to 
England,  where  he  dicil  in  neglect  and  poverty.  "Afiei 
his  decease,  his  mother,  Matilda,  privately  invited  tin 
children  to  return  to  Germany;  and,  by  her  mediation 
during  a  season  of  festivity,  when  Louis  kept  wassail 
in  the  castle  of  Heidelberg,  the  family  of  his  brother 
presented  themselves  before  him  in  the  garb  of  suppli- 
ants, imploring  pity  and  forgiveness.  To  this  app;al  th* 

victor  softened." Miss  Benger's  Memoirs  of  Uu 

Queen  of  Bohemia. 

THE  Kaiser  feasted  in  his  hall — 

The  red  wine  mantled  high ; 
Banners  were  trembling  on  the  wall. 

To  the  peals  of  minstrelsy : 
And  many  a  gleam  and  sparkle  came 

From  the  armour  hung  around, 
As  it  caught  the  glance  of  the  torch's  flame, 

Or  the  hearth  with  pine-boughs  crown'd. 

Why  fell  there  silence  on  the  chord 

Beneath  the  harper's  hand  ? 
And  suddenly,  from  that  rich  hoard, 

Why  rose  the  wassail  band? 
The  strings  were  hush'd—  the  knights  made  w*j 

For  the  queenly  mother's  tread, 
As  up  the  hall,  in  dark  array. 

Two  fair-hair'd  boys  she  led. 

She  led  them  e'en  to  the  Kaiser's  place. 

And  still  before  him  stood  ; 
Till,  with  strange  wonder,  o'er  his  face 

Flush'd  the  proud  warrior  blood  : 
And  "  Speak,  my  mother!  speak  1"  he  cried 

"  Wherefore  this  mourning  vest  ? 
And  the  clinging  children  by  thy  side, 

In  weeds  of  sadness  drest  ?" 

"Well  may  a  mourning  vest  be  mine, 

And  theirs,  my  son,  my  son  I 
Look  on  the  features  of  thy  line 

In  each  fair  little  one ! 
Though  grief  awhile  within  their  eye* 

Hath  tamed  the  dancing  glee, 
Yet  there  thine  own  quick  spirit  lies— 

Thy  brother's  children  see  I 

"  And  where  is  he,  thy  brother,  where  1 

He  in  thy  home  that  grew, 
And  smiling,  with  his  sunny  hair, 

Ever  to  greet  thee  flew  ? 
How  would  his  arms  thy  neck  entwine. 

His  fond  lips  press  thy  brow  I 
My  son  !  oh,  call  these  orphans  thine — 

Thou  hast  no  brother  now  ! 

"  What !  from  their  gentle  eyes  doth  naught 

Speak  of  thy  childhood's  hours, 
And  smite  thee  with  a  tender  thought 

Of  thy  dead  father's  towers  ? 
Kind  was  thy  boyish  heart  and  true, 

When  rear'd  together  there. 
Through  the  old  woods  like  fawns  ye  flew — 

Where  is  thy  brother — where  ? 

"  Well  didst  thou  love  him  then,  and  he 

Still  at  thy  side  was  seen ! 
How  is  it  that  such  things  can  be 

As  though  they  ne'er  had  been  ? 
Evil  was  this  world's  breath,  whifh  ;ame 

Between  the  good  and  brave  ! 
Now  must  the  tears  of  grief  and  ihanM 

Be  offer'd  to  the  grave. 

"  And  let  them,  let  them  there  be  pour'd : 
Though  all  unfelt  below— 

Thine  own  wrung  heart,  to  love  restored. 
Shall  soften  as  they  How. 

Oh !  death  is  mighty  to  make  peace  ; 
Now  bid  his  work  be  done! 

So  many  an  inward  strife  shall  cease- 
Take,  take  these  babes,  my  son  !" 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


341 


Hi)  eye  was  dimm'd— the  strong  man  shook 

With  feelings  long  suppressed  ; 
Up  in  his  arms  the  hoys  he  took. 

And  strain 'd  them  to  his  breast 
And  a  shout  from  all  in  the  royal  hall 

Burst  forth  to  hail  the  sight; 
And  eyes  were  wet  'midst  the  brave  that  met 

At  the  Kaiser's  feast  that  night. 


TASSO  AND  HIS  SISTER. 

"  Devant  voua  eit  Sorrente ;  la  demeuroit  la  weur  da 
Tdsse,  quand  il  vint  en  pelerin  domander  a  cette  obscure 
am' 3,  un  asyle centre  ['injustice  des  princes. — Ses  longues 
douleurs  avaient  presque  egare  ga  raiaon;  il  ne  lui 
:tntoit  plug  que  son  genie."— —Corinne. 

SHE  sat,  where  on  each  wind  that  sigh'd, 

The  citron's  breath  went  by. 
While  the  red  gold  of  eventide 

Buru'd  in  th'  Italian  sky. 
Her  bower  was  one  where  daylight's  close 

Full  oft  sweet  laughter  found, 
A*  thence  the  voice  of  childhood  rose 

To  the  high  vineyards  round. 

But  still  and  thoughtful,  at  her  knee 

Her  children  stood  that  hour. 
Their  bursts  of  song  and  dancing  glee 

Hush'd  as  by  words  of  power. 
With  bright,  fix'd,  wondering  eyes,  that  gazed 

Up  to  their  mother's  face, 
With  brows  through  parted  ringlets  raised, 

They  stood  in  silent  grace. 

While  she — yet  something  o'er  her  look 

Of  mournfulness  was  spread — 
Forth  from  a  poet's  magic  book 

The  glorious  numbers  read; 
The  proud  undying  lay  which  pour'd 

Its  light  on  evil  years ; 
His  of  the  gifted  pen  and  sword,* 

The  triumph  and  the  tears. 

She  read  of  fair  Erminia's  flight, 

Which  Venice  once  might  hear 
Sung  on  her  glittering  seas  at  night 

By  many  a  gondolier; 
Of  him  she  read,  who  broke  the  charm 

That  wrapt  the  myrtle-grove  ; 
Of  Godfrey's  deeds,  of  Tancred's  arm, 

That  slew  his  Paynim  love. 

young  cheeks  around  that  bright  page  glow'd. 

Young  holy  hearts  were  stirr'd; 
And  the  meek  tears  of  woman  flow'd 

Fast  o'er  each  burning  word. 
And  sounds  of  breeze,  and  fount,  and  leaf, 

Came  sweet,  each  pause  between ; 
When  a  strange  voice  of  sudden  grief 

Burst  on  the  gentle  scene. 

The  mother  turn'd— a  way-worn  man, 

In  pilgrim  garb,  stood  nigh, 
Of  stately  mien,  yet  wild  and  wan. 

Of  proud  yet  mournful  eye. 
But  drops  whirh  would  not  stay  for  prid9. 

From  that  dark  eye  gush'd  free, 
As  pressing  his  pale  brow,  he  cried, 

"  Forgotten  I  e'en  by  thee  t 

•*  Am  I  so  changed  ?— and  yet  we  two 

Oft  hand  in  hand  have  play'd  ;— 
This-  brow  hath  been  all  bathed  in  dew. 

From  wreaths  vthich  thou  hast  made* 
We  have  knelt  down  arid  said  one  prayer, 

And  sung  one  vesper  strain  ; 
My  soul  is  dim  with  cloud?  of  care — 

Tell  me  those  words  again! 


"Life  hath  been  heavy  on  my  head, 

I  come  a  stricken  deer, 
Bearing  the  heart,  'midst  crowds  that  bled, 

To  bleed  in  stillness  here." 
She  gazed,  till  thoughts  that  lone  had  slept 

Shook  all  her  thrilling  frame — 
Shi-  fell  upon  his  neck  and  wept, 

Murmuring  her  brother's  name. 

Her  brother's  name  ! — and  who  was  he, 

The  weary  one,  th'  unknown, 
That  came,  the  bitter  world  to  flee, 

A  stranger  to  his  own  7 — 
He  was  the  bard  of  gifts  divine 

To  sway  the  souls  of  men  ; 
He  of  the  song  for  Salcm's  shrine, 

He  of  the  sword  and  pen  t 


ULLA,  OR  THE  ADJURATION 

Yet  ipeak  to  me  !  I  hive  outwa'ch'd  the  ilara, 
And  gazed  o'er  Heaven  in  vain,  in  search  of  then. 
Speak  to  me  !  I  have  wander'd  o'er  the  earth, 
And  never  found  thy  likeoeu.    Speak  to  ma  I 
Thii  once—  once  more  ! 


*  It  U  scarcely  nrceisary  to  recall  the  well-known  Italian  njriaf, 
Out  Taaso,  with  his  iwora  inJ  pea,  wa»  superior  to  all  men 


••THOO'RT  gone  1—  thou'rt  slumbering  low, 

With  the  sounding  seas  above  thee; 
It  is  but  a  restless  woe, 

But  a  haunting  dream  to  love  thee? 
Thrice  the  glad  swan  has  sung, 

To  greet  the  spring-time  hours, 
Since  thine  oar  at  parting  flung 

The  white  spray  up  in  showers. 

There  a  a  shadow  of  the  grave  on  thy  hearth  and 

round  thy  home  ; 
Come  to  me  fro'm  the  ocean's  dead  !—  thou'rt  surely 

of  thorn—  come  !" 
T  was  Ulla's  voice—  alone  she  stood 

In  the  Iceland  summer  night 
Far  gazing  o'er  a  glassy  flood, 
From  a  dark  rock's  beetling  height 

"  I  know  thou  hast  thy  bed 

Where  the  sea-weed's  coil  hath  bound  thoe  ; 
The  storm  sweeps  o'er  thy  head, 

But  the  depths  are  hush'd  around  thee  ; 
What  wind  shall  point  the  way 

To  the  chambers  where  thou'rt  lying  I 
Come  to  me  thence,  and  say 

If  thou  thought's!  on  me  in  dying? 

1  will  not  shrink  to  see  thee  with  a  bloodless  lip 

and  cheek  — 
Come  to  me  from  the  ocean's  dead  !—  thou'rt  surely 

of  them  —  speak  !" 

She  listen'd  —  't  was  the  wind's  low  moan, 

'T  was  the  ripple  of  the  wave, 
T  was  the  wakening  ospray'a  cry  alone, 

As  it  started  from  its  cave. 

"  I  know  each  fearful  spell 

Of  the  ancient  Runic  lay, 
Whose  mutter'd  words  compel 

The  tempest  to  obey. 
But  I  adjure  not  thee 

By  magic  sign  or  song  — 
My  voice  shall  stir  the  sea 

By  love—  the  deep,  the  strong  I 

By  the  might  of  woman's  tears,  by  the  passion  or 

her  sighs, 
Come  to  me  from  the  ocean's  dead  !  —  by  toe  vowv 

we  pledged  —  arise  1" 

Again  she  gazed  with  an  eager  glance, 
Wandering  and  wildly  bright  ;— 

She  saw  but  the  sparkling  waters  dance 
To  the  arrowy  northern  light. 


348 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


"  By  the  slow  and  struggling  death 

Of  hope  that  loathed  to  part, 
By  the  fierce  and  withering  breath 

Of  despair  on  youth's  high  heart — 
By  the  weight  of  gloom  which  clings 

To  the  mantle  of  the  night, 
By  the  heavy  dawn  which  brings 

Naught  lovely  to  the  sight — 

By  all  that  from  my  weary  soul  thou  hast  wrung 

of  grief  and  fear — 
Come  to  me  from  the  ocean's  deaJ— awake,  arise, 

appear !" 

Was  it  her  yearning  spirit's  dream, 

Or  did  a  pale  form  rise, 
And  o'er  the  hush'd  wave  glide  and  gleam, 

With  bright,  still,  mournful  eyes? 

•  Have  the  depths  heard  ?— they  have  I 

My  voice  prevails — thou'rt  there, 
Dim  from  thy  watery  grave — 

O  that  thou  wert  so  fair  1 
Yet  take  me  to  thy  rest ! 

There  dwells  no  fear  with  love  ; 
Let  me  slumber  on  thy  breast, 

While  the  billow  rolls  above  t 

Where  the  long-lost  things  lie  hid,  where  the  bright 

ones  have  their  home, 
We  will  sleep  among  the  ocean's  dead — stay  for 

me,  stay  1 — I  come !" 

There  was  a  sullen  plunge  below, 

A  flashing  on  the  main, 
And  the  wave  shut  o'er  that  wild  heart's  woe, 

Shut — and  grew  still  apiiin. 


TO   WORDSWORTH. 


THINE  is  a  strain  to  read  among  the  hills, 
The  old  and  full  of  voices; — by  the  source 

Of  some  free  stream,  whose  gladd'ning  pretence 

fills 
The  solitude  with  sound;  for  in  its  course 

Even  such  is  thy  deep  song,  that  seems  a  part 

Of  those  high  scenes,  a  fountain  from  their  heart. 

Or  its  calm  spirit  fitly  may  be  taken 
To  the  still  breast,  in  sunny  garden  bowers. 

Where  vernal  winds  each  tree's  low  tones  awaken. 
And  bud  and  bell  with  changes  mark  the  hours. 

There  let  thy  thoughts  be  with  me,  while  the  day 

Sinks  with  a  golden  and  serene  decay. 

Or  by  some  hearth  where  happy  faces  meet, 
When   night  hath   hush'd  the  woods,  with  all 

their  birds, 

There,  from  some  gentle  voice,  that  lay  were  sweet 

As  antique  music,  link'd  with  household  words; 

While,  in   pleased  murmurs,  woman's  lip  might 

move, 
And  the  raised  eye  of  childhood  shine  in  love. 

Or  where  the  shadows  of  dark  solemn  yews 
Brood  silently  o'er  some  lone  burial-ground. 

Thy  verse  hath  power  that  brightly  might  diffuse 
A  breath,  a  kindling,  as  of  spring,  around, 

From  its  own  g.ow  of  hope  and  courage  high. 

And  steadfast  faith's  victorious  constancy. 

True  hard  and  holy! — thou  art  e'en  as  one 
Who,  by  some  secret  gift  of  soul  or  eye, 

In  every  spot  beneath  the  smiling  sun. 
Sees  where  the  springs  of  living  waters  lie : 

Unseen  awhile  they  sleep— till,  touch'd  by  thee, 

Bright  healthful   waves  flow  forth   to  each  glad 
wanderer  fi  ie. 


A  MONARCH'S  DEATH-BED. 


The  Emperor  Albert,  of  Hapsburgh,  who  was  a**a» 
rinated  by  his  nephew,  afterwards  called  John  the  Par 
ricide,  was  left  to  die  by  the  way-side,  and  only  support 
ed  in  his  last  moments  by  a  female  peasant,  who  happen- 
ed to  be  passing. 


A  MONARCH  on  his  death-bed  !ay— 

Did  censers  waft  perfume 
And  soft  lamps  pour  their  silvery  ray 

Through  his  proud  chamber's  gloom  I 
He  lay  upon  a  greensward  bed, 

Beneath  a  darkening  sky — 
A  lone  tree  waving  o'er  his  head, 

A  swift  stream  rolling  by. 

Had  he  then  fall'n  as  warriors  fall, 

Where  spear  strikes  fire  with  spear? 
Was  there  a  banner  for  his  pall, 

A  buckler  for  his  bier  ? 
Vot  so;— nor  cloven  shields  nor  helms 

Had  strewn  the  bloody  sod. 
Where  he,  the  helpless  lord  of  realms, 

Yielded  his  soul  to  God. 

Were  there  not  friends  with  words  of  cheer. 

And  princely  vassals  nigh? 
And  priests,  the  crucifix  to  rear 

Before  the  glazing  eye  ? 
A  peasant  girl  that  royal  head 

Upon  her  bosom  laid, 
And,  shrinking  not  for  woman's  dread. 

The  face  of  death  survey'd. 

Alone  she  sat :— from  hill  and  wood 
Red  sank  the  mournful  sun  : 

Fast  gush'd  the  fount  of  noble  blood- 
Treason  its  worst  had  done. 

With  her  long  hair  she  vainly  press'd 
The  wounds  to  stanch  their  tide — 

Unknown,  on  that  meek  humble  breast, 
Imperial  Albert  died ! 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HEBER. 


Unite  in  tanta  glorU.— fitrurck. 


IF  it  be  sad  to  speak  of  treasures  gone. 
Of  sainted  genius  call'd  too  soon  away. 

Of  light  from  this  world  taken,  while  it  shone 
Yet  kindling  onward  to  the  perfect  day — 

How  shall  our  grief,  if  mournful  these  things  be. 

Flow  forth,  O  thou  of  many  gifts!  for  thee? 

Hath  not  thy  voice  been  here  amongst  us  heard  ? 
'     And  that  deep  soul  of  gentleness  and  power, 
Have  we  not  felt  its  breath  in  every  word, 

Wont  from  thy  lip,  as  Hermon's  dew,  to  shower? 
Yes,  in   our  hearts  thy  fervent   thoughts    have 

burn'd — 
Of  heaven  they  were,  and  thither  have  return'd. 

How  shall  we  mourn  thee  ?— With  a  lofty  trust, 
Our  life's  immortal  birthright  from  above! 

With  a  glad  faith,  whose  eye,  to  track  the  just. 
Through  shrdos  and  mysteries  lifts  a  glance  of 
love, 

And  yet  can  weep !— for  nature  thus  deplores 

The  friend  that  leaves  us,  though  for  happier  shore*. 

And  one  high  tone  of  triumph  o'er  thy  bier, 
One  strain  of  solemn  rapture  be  allow'd  ! 

Thou,  that  rejoicing  on  thy  mid  career. 
Not  to  decay,  but  unto  death,  has  bow'd ; 

In  those  bright  regions  of  the  rising  sun, 

Where  victory  ne'er  a  crown  like  thine  had  won. 

Praise!  for  yet  one  more  name  with  power  endow'd, 
To  cheer  and  guide  us,  onward  as  we  press: 

Yet  one  more  image  on  the  heart  bestow'd. 
To  dwell  there,  beautiful  in  holiness! 

Thine,  Heber,  thine  !  whose  memory  from  the  deM 

Shines  as  the  star  which  to  th«-  <*  iviour  led. 


REMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


349 


r 


THE  ADOPTED  CHILD. 


WHY  wouldst  thou  leave  me,  O  gentle  child  7 
Thy  home  on  the  mountain  is  bleak  and  wild, 
\      A  stravv-roof'd  cahiii  with  lowly  wall — 
Mine  is  a  fair  i.n.l  u  pillnr'd  hall, 
Where  many  an  image  of  murhle  gleams, 
And  the  sunshine  of  picture  for  ever  streams." 

"Oh!  green  is  the  turf  where  my  brothers  play, 
Through  tin?  long  bright  hours  of  the  summer  day ; 
They  find  the  red  cup-moss  where  they  climb, 
And  they  chase  the  bee  o'er  the  scented  thyme, 
And  the  rocks  where  the  heath-flower  blooms  they 

know- 
Lady,  kind  lady  !  O,  let  me  go." 

"  Content  thee.  boy  !  in  my  bower  to  dwell. 
Here  are  sweet  sounds  which  thou  lovest  well; 
Flutes  on  the  air  in  the  stilly  noon. 
Harps  which  the  wandering  breezes  tune. 
And  the  silvery  wood-note  of  many  u  bird, 
Whose  voice  was  ne'er  in  thy  mountains  heard." 

"  Oh  !  my  mother  sings,  at  the  twilight's  fall, 
A  song  of  the  hills  far  more  sweet  than  all; 
She  sings  it  umler  our  own  green  tree, 
To  the  balie  half  slumbering  on  her  knee; 
I  dreamt  last  night  of  that  music  low- 
Lady,  kind  lady  !  O,  let  me  go." 

"  Thy  mother  is  gone  from  her  cares  to  rest, 
She  hath  taken  the  babe  on  her  quiet  breast; 
Thou  wouldst  meet  her  footstep,  my  boy,  no  more 
Nor  hear  her  song  at  the  cabin  door. 
Oome  thou  with  me  to  the  vineyards  nigh, 
And  we'll  pluck  the  grapes  of  the  richest  dye." 

"  Is  my  mother  gone  from  her  home  away  ? — 
But  I  know  that,  my  brothers  are  there  at  play— 
I  know  they  are  gathering  the  foxglove's  bell, 
Or  the  long  fern-leaves  by  the  sparkling  well; 
Or  they  launch  their  boats  where  the  bright  stream* 

flow— 
Lady,  kind  lady  I  O,  let  me  go." 

"  Fair  child,  thy  brothers  are  wanderers  now, 
They  sport  no  more  on  the  mountain's  brow, 
They  have  left  the  fern  by  the  spring's  green  side. 
And  the  streams  where  the  fairy  barks  were  tried. 
Be  thou  at  peace  in  thy  brighter  lot, 
For  thy  cabin  home  is  a  lonely  spot." 

•Are  they  gone,  all  gone  from  the  gunny  hill  T— 
But  the  bird  and  the  blue-fly  rove  o'er  it  still ; 
And  the  red-deer  hound  in  their  gladness  free, 
'     And  the  heath  is  bent  by  the  singing  bee, 

And  t*ie  waters  leap,  and  the  fresh  winds  blow- 
Lady  kind  lady  I  O,  let  me  go."  ^— , 


INVOCATION. 

1  caMM  or  dreamt  and  visions,  to  diieloM 

That  which  it  veil'J  from  waking  thought;  conjured 

Eternity,  as  men  constrain  a  (ho*. 

To  appear  and  answer. 


ANSWER  me,  burning  stars  of  night 

Where  is  the  spirit  gone, 
That  past  the  reach  of  human  sight. 

As  a  swift  breeze  rmth  flown  ? — 
And  the  stars  answer'd  me—"  We  roll 

in  light  and  power  on  high ; 
But,  <>f  tin-  never-dying  soul, 

Ask  that  which  cannot  dio." 

Oh!  many-toned  and  chainieRS  wind 
Thou  art  a  wanderer  free ; 

Tell  me  if  thou  its  place  canst  find, 
Far  over  mount  and  sea  ? — 


And  the  wind  inurmur'd  in  reply— 
"The  blue  de«p  I  have  cross'd, 

And  met  its  barks  ami  billows  high, 
But  not  what  th  in  hast  lost." 

Ye  clouds  that  gorgeously  repose 

Around  the  setting  sun. 
Answer !  have  ye  a  home  for  those 

Whose  earthly  race  is  run  ? — 
The  bright  clouds  answer'd — "We  depart, 

We  vanish  from  the  sky  ; 
Ask  what  is  deathless  in  thy  heart. 

For  that  which  cannot  die." 

Speak  then,  thou  voice  of  God  within, 

Thou  of  the  deep,  low  tone! 
Answer  me,  through  life's  restless  din, 

Where  is  the  spirit  flown  ? — 
And  the  voice  answer'd—"  Be  thou  still  f 

Enough  to  know  is  given  ; 
Clouds,  winds,  and  stars  their  part  fulfil, 

Thine  is  to  trust  in  Heaven." 


KORNER  AND  HIS  SISTER. 


Charles  Theodore  Korner,  th«  celebrated  young  Ger- 
man poet  and  soldier,  was  killed  in  a  skirmish  with  a 
detachment  of  French  troops,  on  the  iOiii  of  August. 
.wI3,  a  fnw  horn?  niter  I'M  C&.T.CW'.'GII  of  -.m  ^c-fi-.i'ir 
piece,  "  Tl.;  Swcril  Song."  He  was  buried  at  the  vj|- 
luge  of  Wobbclin  in  Mticklenburjt.il.  under  a  beautiful 
oak,  in  a  recess  of  which  he  bad  frequently  de»  isitrd 
verses  composed  by  him  while  campaigning  in  its  vici- 
nity. The  monument  erected  lo  his  memory  is  of  cast 
iron;  and  the  upper  p»rt  is  wrocxht  into  a  lyre  ami 
sword,  a  favourite  emblem  ofKorner's,  from  which  one 
of  his  works  had  been  entitled.  Near  the  grave  of  the 
poet  i?  that  of  his  only  sister,  who  died  of  griel'  I'or  liid 
Inss.  hnvine  only  survived  him  lone  enough  to  complete 
his  portrait  and  a  drawing  of  his  burial-place.  Ov-r 
tha  gate  of  the  cemetery  is  engraved  one  of  hii  uv  a 
linos: — 

"  Vergiss  die  treuen  Tod  ten  nicht." 
Forget  not  the  faithful  dead. 

See  Richardson's  Translation  of  Korner'g  Lift  and 
Works,  and  Doicne^'  Waters  from  Mccklen.bv.rgh. 


KORNER    AND    HIS    SISTER. 


GREEN  wave  the  oak  for  ever  o'er  thy  rest, 
Thou  that  beneath  its  crowning  foliage  sleepftt. 

And,  in  the  stillness  of  thy  country's  breast, 
Thy  place  of  memory  as  an  altar  keepest; 

Brightly  thy  spirit  o'er  her  hills  was  pour'd, 
Thou  of  the  Lyre  and  Sword ! 

Rest,  bard  !  rest,  soldier ! — by  the  father's  hand 
Here  shall  the  child  of  after  years  be  led. 

With  his  wreath-ottering  silently  to  stand 
In  tiie  liush'd  presence  of  the  glorious  dead. 

Soldier  and  bard !  for  thou  thy  path  hast  trod 
With  freedom  and  with  God. 

The  oak  waved  proudly  o'er  thy  burial-ri^B, 
On  thy  crown'd  bier  to  slumber  warriors  bom 

thee. 

And  with  true  hearts  thy  brethren  of  the  fight 
Went  as  they  vail'd  their  drooping  banners  o'ei 

thee. 
And  the  deep  guns  with  rolling  peal  gave  token, 

That  Lyre  and  Sword  were  broken. 
Thou  hast  a  hero's  tomb  ;— a  lowlier  bed 

Is  hers,  the  gentle  girl  beside  thee  lying — 
The  gentle  girl,  that  bow'd  her  fair  young  head 
When  tho'i  wcrt  gone,  in  silent  sorrow  dying. 
Brother,  true  friend  !  the  tender  and  the  brave— 
She  pined  to  share  thy  grave. 

Fame  was  thy  gift  from  others  -.—  but  for  her, 
To  whom  the  wide  world  held  that  only  spot, 

She  loved  thee! — lovely  in  your  lives  ye  were. 
And  in  your  early  deaths  divided  not. 


350 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thou  hast  thine  oak,  thy  trophy:  — What  hath 
she?— 
Her  own  blest  place  by  thee ! 

It  was  thy  spirit,  brother,  which  had  made 
The  bright  earth  glorious  to  her  thoughtful  eye, 

Since  first  in  childhood  'midst  the  vines  ye  play'd. 
And  sent  glad  singing  through  the  free  blue  sky. 

Ye  were  hut  two— anil,  when  that  spirit  pass'd, 
Woe  to  the  one.  the  last! 

Woe,  yet  not  long ! — She  linger'd  but  to  trace 
Thine  image  from  the  image  in  her  breast- 
Once,  once  again  to  see  that  buried  face 

But  smile  upon  her,  ere  she  went  to  rest. 
Too  sad  a  smile  !  its  living  light  was  o'er—- 
It answer'd  hers  no  more. 

The  earth  grew  silent  when  thy  voice  departed, 
The  home  too  lonely  whence  thy  step  had  fled  ; 

What  then  was  left  for  her,  the  faithful-hearted? 
Death,  death,  to  still  the  yearning  for  the  dead* 

Softly  she  perish'd  ;— be  the  Flower  deplored 
Here  with  the  Lyre  and  Sword  ! 

Have  ye  not  met  ere  now?— so  let  those  trust 

That  meet  for  moments  but  to  part  for  years — 
That  weep,  watch,  pray,  to  hold  back  dust  from 

dust- 
That  love,  where  love  is  but  a  fount  of  tears. 
Brother,  sweet  sister  1  peace  around  ye  dwell  :— 
Lyre,  Sword,  and  Flower,  farewell  1"* 


THE  DEATH-DAY  OF  KORNEH.f 

A  BONO  for  the  death-day  of  the  brave— 

A  song  of  pride  ! 

The  youth  went  down  to  a  hero's  grave, 
With  the  Sword,  his  bride.J 

He  went,  with  his  noble  heart  unworn, 

And  pure,  and  high  ; 
An  eagle  stooping  from  clouds  of  morn, 

Only  to  die  ! 

He  went  with  the  lyre  whose  lofty  tone 

Beneath  his  hand 
Had  tlirillM  to  ihe  name  of  his  God  alone 

And  his  father-land 

And  with  all  his  glorious  feelings  yet 

In  their  first  glow, 
Like  a  southern  stream  that  no  frost  hath  met 

To  chain  its  flow. 

A  fonjr  for  the  death-day  of  the  brave— 

A  song  of  pride! 
For  him  that  vvi-nt  to  a  hero's  grave, 

With  the  Sword,  his  bride. 

Ac  hath  left  a  voice  in  his  trumpet  lays 

To  turn  the  flight, 
And  a  guiding  spirit  for  after-days, 

Like  a  watch-fire's  light. 

•The  following  lines,  recently  addressed  to  the  author  of  the 
•hoie,  by  the  venerable  father  of  Korner,  who,  with  the  mother 
ttill  survives  the  "  Lyre,  Sword,  and  Flower,"  here  commemorated, 
may  not  be  uninteresting  to  Ihe  German  reader. 

Wnlillaut  ton!  iui  der  Feme  von  freundlichen  I.uffrn  retnren, 
Schmeichelt  mil  lindernder  Kraft  sich  in  der  Trauernden  Ohr, 
SUrkt  den  erhrbeniten  Glauben  an  soldier  seelen  Verwandschaft, 
Pie  rum  Tempel  die  brust  uur  fur  das  Wurdige  weihn. 
4l»  item  Laud?  cu  dem  sii-h  stets  der  erfejerte  Jungling 
Rineezr>|reii  gtf  unit,  wird  ihm  cin  elartnder  Lohn. 
Heildem  Br.ltischer.  Vr  'ke,  wenn  ihm  das  Deutsche  nich'  fremd  is*  I 
Tiber  Under  und  Meer  leicheo  sich  beyde  die  Hand. 

Tlitodar  Kamtr'i  1-aUr 

4  On  reading  part  of  a  .rtter  fiom  Knirert  father,  addressed  to 
fclr.  Richardioii,  the  translator  of  hit  works,  iu  which  be  tneakl  of 
"The  death-day  of  hii  ion." 


And  a  grief  in  his  father's  soul  to  rest, 

'Midst  all  high  thought ; 
And  a  memory  unto  his  mother's  breast, 

With  healing  fraught. 

And  a  name  and  fame  above  the  blight 

Of  earthly  breath. 
Beautiful— beautiful  and  bright, 

In  life  and  death! 

A  song  for  the  death  of  the  brave— 

A  song  of  pride ! 
For  him  that  went  to  a  hero's  grave. 

With  the  Sword,  his  bride  I 


AN  HOUR  OF  ROMANCE, 


{See  the  Sword  Song,  composed  o.i  the 


ng  of  hisdoath. 


I  come 

To  thii  sweet  place  for  quiet.     Every  tree, 
And  bush,  and  fragrant  flower,  and  hilly  path, 
And  thymy  mound  that  flings  unto  the  wind* 
IU  moruiug  iuceute,  if  my  ''rieud. 

Barn/  Camiaatt, 

THERE  were  thick  leaves  above  me  and  around, 

And  low  sweet  sighs,  like  those  of  childhood* 

sleep, 
Amidst  their  dimness,  and  a  fitful  sound 

As  of  soft  showers  on  water;  dark  and  deep 
Lay  the  oak  shadows  o'er  the  turf,  so  still 
They  seem'd  hut  pictured  glooms:  a  hidden  rill 
Made  music,  such  as  haunts  us  in  a  dream, 
Under  the  fern  tufts ;  and  a  tender  gleam 
Of  soft  green  light,  as  by  the  glowworm  shed, 

Came  pouring  through  the  woven  beach  bought 

down. 
And  steep'd  the  magic  page  wherein  I  read 

Of  royal  chivalry  and  old  renown, 
A  tale  of  Palestine.* — Meanwhile  tin-  bee 

Swept  past  me  with  a  tone  of  summer  hour*, 

A  drowsy  bucle,  wafting  thoughts  of  flowers. 
Blue  skies  and  amber  sunshine  :  'brightly  free. 
On  till,,;    v  ,  .„.-.  ..i.   |.  ,.pi.:»raj{Uii-fly 
Shot  p'nnrina  like  u  fairy  javelin  by; 
And  a  sweet  voice  of  sorrow  told  ihe  dell 

Where  sat  ih«:  lone  wood-pigeon  , 

But  ere  long, 

All  sense  of  these  things  faded,  as  the  spelt 
Breathing   from   that  high  gorgeous  tale   grew 

strong 

On  mychain'd  soul. — 'twas  not  the  leaves  I  heard; 
A  Syrian  wind  the  lion-ban 'ier  stirr'd, 
Through  its  proud  floating  folds:— 'twas  nt.l  the 

brook, 

Singing  in  secret  through  its  grassy  glen ; — 
A  wild  shrill  trumpet  of  th;;  Saracen 
(eal'd  from  the  desert's  Imiuly  liuart,  and  shook 
The  burning  air. —  l.iki:  clouds  when  winds  art 

high, 

O'er  glittering  sands  flow  steeds  of  Araby, 
And  tents  rose  up,  and  su-ulcn  lance  anil  spear 
Flash'd  where  a  fountain'* diamond  wave  lay  clear, 
Shadow'd  by  graceful  palm-1rt;i;s.    Then  th«  shout 
Of  merry  England's  joy  suell'd  freely  out, 
Sent  through  an  eastern  heaven,  whose  glorious 

hue 

Made  shields  dark  mirrors  to  its  depths  of  blue: 
And   harps  were   there  — I   heard  their  sounding 

strings, 

As  the  waste  echo'd  to  the  mirth  of  kings.— 
The  bright  masque  faded.— Unto  life's  worn  track, 
What  call'd  me  from  its  flood  of  glory  back  ? 
A  voice  of  happy  childhood  ! — and  they  pass'd, 
Banner,  and  harp,  and  Paynim's  trumpet's  blast) 
Yet  might  I  scarce  bewail  the  splendours  gone, 
My  heart  so  leap'd  to  that  sweet  laughter's  tone. 

*  PsJntine— Tales  of  Ihe  Cnaaden. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


351 


A  VOYAGER'S  DREAM  OF  LAND. 


His  very  heart  athint 
To  gate  at  Nature  in  her  green  array, 
Open  If.!  it.ip'i  tall  tide  he  stand*,  pooen'd 
With  visions  prompted  by  intense  desire; 
Fair  fields  appear  below,  such  as  he  left 
Far  distant,  such  as  he  would  die  to  find  :— 
He  seeks  them  headlong,  and  is  seen  no  more. 

Cmepm. 


itK  hollow  dash  of  wn  VPS!— the  ceaseless  roar  I — 
Bilence,  ye  billows!— vex  my  soul  no  more. 

There's  a  spring  in  the  woods  hy  my  sunny  home. 
Afar  from  the  dark  sea's  tossing  foam; 
Oh  !  the  fall  of  that  fountain  is  sweet  to  hear, 
As  a  song  from  the  shore  to  the  sailor's  ear  I 
And  the  sparkle  which  up  to  the  sun  it  throws, 
Through  the  feiithery  fern  and  the  olive  boughs. 
And  the  gleam  on  its  path  as  it  steals  away 
Into  deeper  shades  from  the  sultry  day, 
And  the  large  water-lilies  that  o'er  its  bed 
Their  pearly  leaves  to  the  soft  light  spread, 
They  haunt  me  I  I  dream  of  that  bright  spring'* 

flow, 
I  thirst  for  its  rills  like  a  wounded  roe  1 

Be  still,  thou  sea-bird,  with  thy  clanging  cry, 
My  spirit  sickens,  as  thy  wing  sweeps  by. 

Know  ye  my  home,  with  the  lulling  sound 

Of  leaves  from  the  1-me  and  the  chestnut  round? 

Know  ye  it,  brethren  !  where  bower'd  it  lies, 

Under  the  purple  of  southern  skies? 

With  the  streamy  gold  of  the  sun  that  chines 

in  through  the  cloud  of  its  clustering  vines, 

And  the  summer  breath  of  the  myrtle  flowers, 

Borne  from  the  mountains  in  dewy  hours, 

And   the   fire-fly's  glance  through  the  dark'ning 

shades, 

Like  shooting  stars  in  the  forest  glades. 
And  the  scent  of  the  citron  at  eve's  dim  fall — 
Speak  I  have  ye  known,  have  ye  felt  them  all  7 

The  neavy  rolling  surge  !  the  rocking  mast! 
Mush!  give  my  dream's  deep  music  way,  thou  blast  I 

Oh,  the  glad  sounds  of  the  joyous  ear'h  ! 

The  notes  of  the  singing  cicala's  mirth, 

The  murmurs  that  live  in  the  mountain  pines, 

The  sighing  of  reeds  as  the  day  declines. 

The  wings  flitting  home  through  the  crimson  glow 

That  steeps  the  wood  when  the  sun  is  low. 

The  voice  of  the  night-bird  that  sends  a  thrill 

To  the  heart  of  the  leaves  when  the  winds  are 

still— 

I  hear  them ! — around  me  they  rise,  they  swell. 
They  call  back  my  spirit  with  Hope  todwell — 
They  come  with  a  breath  from  the  fresh  spring. 

time, 
And  waken  my  youth  in  its  hour  of  prime. 

The  white  foam  dashes  high— away,  away! 
Shroud  my  green  land  no  more,  thou  blinding  spray ! 

It  is  there!— down  the  mountains  I  see  the  sweep 

Of  the  chestnut  forests,  the  rich  and  deep, 

With  the  burden  and  glory  of  flowers  that  they 

bear. 

Floating  upborne  on  the  blue  summer  air, 
And  the   li-ilit   pouring  through  them  in  tender 

gleams, 

And  the  flashing  forth  of  a  thousand  streams! 
Hold  me  not,  brethren  !  I  go.  1  go. 
To  the  hills'  of  my  youth,  where  the  myrtles  blow, 
To  the  depths  of  the  woods,  where  the  shadows 

rent, 
llansy  and  still,  on  the  greensward's  breast 


To  trie  rocks  that  resound  with  the  water's  play— 
I  hear  the  sweet  laugh  of  my  fount— give  way! 

Give  way!— the  booming  surge,  ths  tempest's  roar, 
The  sea-bird's  wail,  shall  vex  my  soul  no  more. 


THE  EFFIGIES. 


Der  ruche  Kampf  vert 
Er  falle  gleich,  so  preis 
Alleindie  Thranen,  die 
Deruberliebnen.derve 
Zahlt  keine  Nacbwelt 


"iff  einen  Mann i 
it  inn  dai  Lied, 
unendlichen 
•lass'oen  Frau, 

Ooctt*. 


WARRIOR  !  whose  image  on  thy  tomb. 

With  shield  and  crested  head, 
Sleeps  proudly  in  the  purple  gloom 

By  the  stain'd  window  shed 
The  records  of  thy  name  and  race 

Have  faded  from  the  stone, 
Yet,  through  a  cloud  of  years,  I  trac« 

What  thou  hast  been  and  done 

A  banner,  from  its  flashing  spear, 

Flung  out  o'er  many  a  light; 
A  war-cry  ringing  far  and  clear. 

And  strong  to  turn  the  flight; 
An  arm  that  bravely  bore  the  lance 

On  for  the  holy  shrine, 
A  haughty  heart  and  a  kingly  glance — 

Chief!  were  not  these  things  thine  1 

A  lofty  place  where  leaders  sate 

Around  the  council  board  ; 
In  festive  halts  a  chair  of  state 

When  the  blood-red  wine  was  pour'd; 
A  name  that  drew  a  prouder  tone 

From  herald,  harp,  and  bard ; 
Surely  these  things  were  all  thine  own-  • 

So  hadst  thou  thy  reward. 

Woman !  whose  sculptured  form  at  rest 

By  the  arm'd  knight  is  laid, 
With  meek  hands  folded  o'er  a  breast 

In  matron  robes  array'd; 
What  was  thy  tale  ?— O  gentle  matt 

Of  him,  the  bold  and  free, 
Bound  unto  his  victorious  fate, 

What  bard  hath  sung  of  tkeet 

He  woo'd  a  bright  and  burning  star— 

Thine  was  the  void,  the  gloom, 
The  straining  eye  that  follow'd  far 

His  fast  receding  plume; 
The  heart-sick  listening  while  his  steed 

Sent  echoes  on  the  bree/e ; 
The  pang — but  when  did  Fame  take  heed 

Of  griefs  obscure  as  these  1 

Thy  silent  and  secluded  hours 

Through  many  a  lonely  day, 
While  bending  o'er  thy  broider'd  flowers. 

With  spirit  far  away ; 
Thy  weeping  midnight  prayers  for  him 

Who  fought  on  Syrian  plains, 
Thy  watchinas  till  the  torch  grew  dim— 

These  All  no  minstrel  strains. 

A  still,  sad  life  was  thine!— long  yean 

With  tasks  unguerdon'd  fraught — 
Deep,  quiet  love,  submissive  lean, 

Vigils  of  anxious  thought ; 
Prayer  at  the  cross  in  fervour  pour'd, 

Alms  to  the  pilgrim  given — 
Oh  I  happy,  happier  than  thy  lord. 

In  that  lone  path  to  heaven  ' 


352 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  LANDING  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHEM 
IN  NEW-ENGLAND. 


Look  now  abroad— another  race  has  fill'd 

Those  populous  bordera — wide  (he  wood  recedes, 

And  towns  shoo!  up,  and  fertile  realms  are  till'd ; 
The  land  is  full  of  harvests  and  green  meads. 

Bryant. 

THB  breaking  waves  dash'd  high 

On  a  stern  and  rock  bound  coast. 
And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 

Their  giant  branches  toss'd  ; 

And  the  heavy  niztit  hung  dark. 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er. 
When  a  hand  of  exiles  moor'd  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New-England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes. 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came ; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet' that  sings  of  fame: 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear; — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang. 

And  the  stars  heard  and  the  sea  I 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean  eagle  soar'd 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roar'd— 

This  was  their  welcome  home  1 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim  band; — 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye. 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ?— • 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  1 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground. 
The  soil  where  first  they  trod ! 

They  have  left  unstain'd  what  there  they  found- 
Freedom  to  worship  God. 


THE  SPIRIT'S  MYSTERIES. 

And  slight,  withal,  may  be  the  things  which  bring 
Back  on  the  heart  the  weight  which  it  would  fling 

Aiide  for  erer; — it  may  be  a  sound — 
A  tone  of  music— cummer's  breath,  or  spring— 

A  flower— a  leaf— the  ocean— which  may  wound- 
Striking  th' electric  chain  wherewith  we  are  darkly  bound. 
CA  tldt  HaroU. 

J"HK  power  that  dwelleth  in  sweet  sounds  to  wa- 
ken 

Vague  yearnings,  like  the  sailor's  for  the  shore, 
jtnd  dim  remembrances,  whose  hue  seems  taken 
From  some  bright  former  mate,  our  own   no 

more ; 

If  not  this  all  a  mystery  ?— Who  shall  say 
Whence  are  those  thoughts,  and  whither  tends 
their  way? 

The  sudden  images  of  vanish'd  things. 
That  o'er  the  spirit  flash,  we  know  not  why; 

Tones  from  some  broken  harp's  deserted  strings, 
Warm  sunset  hues  of  summers  long  gone  by ; 

A  rippling  wave— the  dashing  of  an  oar— 

A  flower-scent  floating  past  our  parents'  door  • 


A  word— scarce  noted  in  its  hour  (>erchanee, 
Yet  Lack  returning  with  a  plaintive  tone; 

A  smile— a  sunny  or  a  mournful  glance. 
Full  of  sweet  meanings  now  (rum   this  world 
flo<vn  ; 

Are  not  these  mysteries  when  to  life  they  start. 

And  press  vain  t<.-ars  in  gushes  from  th?  heart? 

And  the  far  wanderings  of  the  soul  in  dreams. 
Calling  up  shrouded  faces'  from  the  dead. 

And  with  them  bringing  soft  or  solemn  gleams. 
Familiar  objects  brightly  to  oVrspread  ; 

And  wakening  buried  love,  or  joy,  or  fear — 

These  are  night's  mysteries— who  shall  make  then 
clear  ? 


And  the  strange  inborn  sense  of  coming  ill. 
That  oft  times  whispers  to  the  haunted  breast. 

In  a  low  tone  which  naught  can  drown  or  still, 
'Midst  feasts  and  melodies  a  secret  guest : 

Whence  doth  that   murmur   wake,  that  shadow 
fall? 

Why  shakes  the  spirit  thus?— 'tis  mystery  all  I 

Darkly  we  move— we  press  upon  the  brink 
Haply  of  viewless  worlds,  and  know  it  not; 

Yes!  it  may  be,  that  nearer  than  we  think 
Are  those  whom  death  has  parted  from  our  lot, 

Fearfully,  wondrously,  our  souls  arc  made — 

Let  re  walk  humbly  on,  but  undismuy'd! 

humbly — for  knowledge  strives  in  vain  to  feel 
Her  way  amidst  these  marvels- of  the  mind; 

Yet  undismay'd— for  do  they  not  reveal 
Th'  immortal  being  with  our  dust  entwined  ?— 

So  let  us  deem  !  and  e'en  the  tears  they  wake 

Shall  then  be  blest,  for  that  high  nature's  sake. 


THE  DEPARTED.         — . 

Thou  shall  lie  down 

With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world— with  kings, 
The  powerful  of  the  earth— the  wise — the  good, 
Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 
All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre. 

Bryant, 

AND  shrink  ye  from  the  way 

To  the  spirit's  distant  shore  ? — 
Earth's  mightiest  men,  in  arm'd  array, 

Are  thither  gone  before. 

The  warrior  kings,  whose  banner 

Flew  far  as  eaglos  fly, 
They  are  gone  where  swords  avail  them  not, 

Froin  'he  feast  of  victory. 

And  the  seers  who  sat  of  yore 
By  orient  palm  or  wave. 

They  have  pass'd  with  all  their  starry  Ion- 
Can  yt  still  fear  the  grave? 

We  fear!  we  fear!— the  sunshine 

Is  joyous  to  behold. 
And  we  reck  not  of  the  buried  kings. 

Nor  the  awful  seers  of  old. 

Ye  shrink!— the  bards  whose  lays 
Have  made  your  deep  hearts  burn — 

They  have  left  the  sun,  and  the  voice  of  praise 
For  the  land  whence  none  return. 

And  the  beautiful,  whose  record 

Is  the  verse  that  cannot  die. 
They  too  are  gone,  with  their  glorious  bloom, 

From  the  love  of  human  eye. 

Would  ye  not  join  that  throng 

Of  the  earth's  departed  flowers, 
And  the  masters  of  the  mighty  song 

In  their  far  and  fadeless  bowers? 


TTEMANS'  POETICAL  WOKKS. 


S58 


Those  soncs  are  high  and  holy. 
But  they  vanquish  not  our  fear; 

Not  from  our  path  those  flowers  are  gone- 
We  tuin  would  linger  herel 

Linger  then  yet  awhile, 

As  the  last  leaves  on  the  bought — 
Ye  have  loved  (he  light  of  many  a  smile, 

That  is  taken  from  you  now. 


•thly  homes. 


Soft  eyes  are  seen  no  more. 

That  made  *pring-timc  in  your  heart; 
Kindred  and  friends  are  gone  before — 

And  ye  still  fear  to  part  ? 

We-  fear  not  now,  we  fear  notl 

Though  the  way  through  darkness  bends  • 
Our  souls  are  strong  to  follow  them, 

Our  own  familiar  friends) 


THE  PALM  TREE.' 


IT  waved  not  through  an  eastern  sky, 
Beside  a  fount  of  Araby  : 
It  was  not  fann'd  by  southern  breeze 
In  some  green  isle  of  Indian  seas; 
Nor  did  its  graceful  shadow  sleep 
O'er  stream  of  Afric,  lone  and  deep. 

But  fair  the  exiled  palm  tree  grew 
'Midst  foliage  of  no  kindred  hue; 
Through  the  laburnum's  dropping  gold 
Rose  the  light  shaft  of  orient  mould, 
And  Europe's  violets  faintly  sweet, 
Purpled  the  moss-beds  at  its  feet. 

Strange  look'd  it  there  I  —  the  willow  stream  "d, 
Where  silvery  waters  near  it  gleam'd; 
The  lime  bough  lured  the  honey-bee 
To  murmur  by  the  desert's  tree, 
And  showers  of  snowy  roses  made 
A  lustre  in  its  fan-like  shade. 

There  came  an  eve  of  festal  hours  — 
Rich  music  fill'd  that  garden's  bowers  : 
Lamps,  that  from  flowering  branches  hung 
On  sparks  of  dew  soft  colour  flung, 
And  bright  forms  glanced  —  a  fairy  show  — 
Under  the  blossoms,  to  and  fro. 

But  one,  a  lone  one,  'midst  the  throng, 
Seem'd  reckless  all  of  dance  or  song  : 
He  was  a  youth  of  dusky  mien, 
Whereon  the  Indian  sun  had  been, 
Of  crested  brow,  and  long  black  hair— 
A  stranger,  like  the  palm  tree  there. 

And  slowly,  sadly  moved  his  plumes, 
Glittering  athwart  the  leafy  glooms: 
He  pass'd  the  pale  green  olives  by, 
Nor  won  the  chestnut  flowers  his  eye  ; 
But  when  to  that  sole  palm  he  came, 
Then  shot  a  rapture  through  his  frame  I 

To  him,  to  him  its  rustling  spoke, 
The  silence  of  his  soul  it  broke! 
It  whisper'd  of  his  own  bright  isle, 
That  lit  the  ocean  with  a  smile  I 
Ay?,  to  his  ear  that  native  tone 
Had  something  of  the  sea-wave's  moan. 

His  mother  fe  cabin  home,  that  lay 
Where  feathery  cocoas  fringed  the  bay; 
The  dashing  of  his  brethren's  oar  — 
The  conch-note  heard  along  the  shore  ;— 
All  through  his  wakening  bosom  swepti 
He  claep'd  his  country's  tree,  and  wept  I 


23 


Oh,  scorn  him  not  I— the  strength  whereby 

The  patriot  girds  himself  to  die, 

Th*  unconquerable  power  which  fills 

The  freeman  battling  on  his  hills, 

These  have  one  fountain  deep  and  clear — 

The  same  whence  gush'd  that  child-like  tear 


THE  CHILD'S  LAST  SLEEP, 

SUGGESTED   BY   A   MONUMENT  OF  CHANTREY'8. 

THOU  sleepest— but  when   wilt  thou  wake,  fail 

child? 

When  the  fawn  awakes  in  the  forest  wild? 
When  the  lark's  wing  mounts  with  the  breeze  of 

morn  ? 

When  the  first  rich  breath  of  the  rose  is  born  7— 
Lovely  thou  sleepest,  yet  something  lies 
Too  deep  and  still  on  thy  soft-seal'd  eyes; 
Mournful,  though  sweet,  is  thy  rest  to  see — 
When  will  the  hour  of  thy  rising  be? 

Not  when  the  fawn  wakes,  not  when  the  lark 
On  the  crimson  cloud  of  the  morn  floats  dark- 
Grief  with  vain  passionate  tears  hath  wet 
The  hair,  shedding  gleams  from  thy  pale  brow  yet 
Love,  with  sad  kisses  unfelt,  hath  press'd 
Thy  meek-dropt  eyelids  and  quiet  breast ; 
;  And  the  glad  spring,  calling  out  bird  and  b«e. 
Shall  colour  all  blossoms,  fair  child!  but  thee. 

Thou'rt    gone    from    us,  bright  ontl— that  tliou 

shouldst  die. 

And  life  be  left  to  the  butterfly!* 
Thou'rt   gone  as  a  dew-drop  is  swept  from  th« 

bough — 

Oh  !  for  the  world  where  thy  home  is  now  I 
How  may  we  love  but  in  doubt  and  fear. 
How  may  we  anchor  our  fond  hearts  here. 
How  should  e'en  joy  hut  a  trembler  be, 
Beautiful  dust  1  when  we  look  on  thee  7 


THE  SUNBEAM. 


THOU  art  no  lingerer  in  monarch's  hall — 
A  joy  thou  art,  and  a  wealth  to  all  1 
A  bearer  of  hope  unto  land  and  sea  : — 
Sunbeam  I  what  gift  hath  the  world  like  thee  ? 

Thou  art  walking  the  billows,  and  ocean  smiles; 
Thou  hast  touch'd  with  glory  his  thousand  isles ; 
Thou  hast  lit  up  the  ships,  and  the  feathery  foam, 
And  gladden'd  the  sailor,  like  words  from  home. 

To  the  solemn  depths  of  the  forest  shades, 

Thou  art  streaming  on  through  their  green  arcades, 

And  the  quivering  leaves  that  have  caught  thy 

glow, 
Like  fire-flies  glance  to  the  pools  below. 

I  look'd  on  the  mountains— a  vapour  lay 
Folding  their  heights  in  its  dark  array: 
Thou  brakest  forth,  and  the  mist  became 
A  crown  and  a  mantle  of  living  flame. 

I  look'd  on  the  peasant's  lowly  cot — 
Something  of  sadness  had  wrapt  the  spot; 
But  a  gleam  of  thee.  on  its  lattice  fell, 
And  it  laugh'd  into  beauty  at  that  bright  spell 

To  the  earth's  wild  places  a  guest  thou  art, 
Flushing  the  waste  like  the  rose's  heart; 
And  thou  scornest  not  from  thy  pomp  to  shed 
A  tender  smile  on  the  ruin's  head. 

Thou  takest  through  the  dim  church  aisle  thy  way 
And  its  pillars  from  twilight  flash  forth  to  day, 
And  its  high,  pale  tornbs,  with  their  trophies  old, 
Are  bathed  in  a  flood  as  of  molten  gold. 


» A  butterfly,  as  if  rating  on  •  flowe 


ulpttired  on  tin 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  thou  turnest  not  from  the  humblest  grare, 
Where  a  flower  to  tlie  sighing  winds  may  wars; 
Thou  scatterest  its  gloom  like  the  dreams  of  rat, 
Thou  sleepest  in  love  on  its  grassy  breast. 

Sunbeam  of  summer!  oh,  what  is  like  thee  7 

Hope  of  the  wilderness,  joy  of  the  sea  !— 

One  thing  is  like  thee  to  mortals  given, 

The  faith  touching  all  things  with  hues  of  Heaves  I 


BREATHINGS  OF  SPRING. 


Thou  gi vest  me  flo were,  thou  gimt  m»  toogt  -,—brwf  back 
The  love  that  I  hive  lost ! 


WHAT  wakest  thou,  Spring  J— sweet  voices  in  the 

woods. 

And  reed-like  echoes,  that  have  long  been  mute; 
rivou  bringest  back,  to  fill  the  solitudes, 

The  lark's  clear  pipe,  the  cuckoo's  viewless  flute. 
Whose  tone  seems  breathing  mournfulness  orglea, 
E'en  as  our  hearts  may  be. 

And  the  leaves  greet  thee,  Spring! — the  joyous 

leaves, 
Whose  tremblings  gladden  many  a  copse  and 

glade. 

Where  each  young  spray  a  rosy  flush  receives. 
When  thy  south  wind  hath  pierced  the  whispery 

shade, 

And  happy  murmurs,  running  through  the  grass, 
Tell  that  thy  footsteps  pass. 

And  the  bright  waters— they  too  hear  thy  call. 
Spring,  the  awakener!  thou  hast  burst  theif 

sleep ! 

Amidst  the  hollows  of  the  rocks  their  fall 
Makes  melody,  and  in  the  forests  deep, 
Where  sudden  sparkles  and  blue  gleams  betray 
Their  windings  to  the  day. 

And  flowers — the  fairy-peopled  world  of  flowers  I 
Thou  from  the  dust  'hast  set  that  glory  free, 

Colouring  the  cowslip  with  the  sunny  hours, 
And  pencilling  the  wood  anemone  ; 

Silent  they  seem— yet  each  to  thoughtful  eye 
Glows  with  mute  poesy. 

But  what  awakest  thou  in  the  heart,  O  Spring ! 

The  human  heart,  with  all  its  dreams  and  sighs  1 
Thou  that  givest  back  so  many  a  buried  thing, 

Restorer  of  forgotten  harmonies  I 
Fresh  songs  and  scents  break  forth  where'er  thou 
art. 

What  wakest  tl  »u  in  tne  heart  7 

TOO  much,  oh!  there  too  much! — we  know  not 

well 

Wherefore  it  should  be  thus,  yet  roused  by  thee, 
What  fond,  strange  yearnings,  from  the  soul's  deep 

cell, 

Gush  for  the  faces  we  no  more  may  see  I 

How  aie  we  haunted,  in  thy  wind's  low  tone. 

By  voices  that  are  gone . 

Looks  01  familiar  love,  that  never  more, 

Never  on  earth,  our  aching  eyes  shall  meet, 
Past  words  of  welcome  to  our  household  door. 

And  vinish'd  smiles,  and  sounds  of  parted  feet- 
Spring  !  'midst  the  murmurs  of  thy  flowering  trees, 
Why,  why  revi vest  thou  these 

Vain  longings  for  the  dead !— why  come  they  back 
With  thy  young  birds,  and  leaves,  and  living 

blooms  ? 
Ob!  is  it  not,  that  from  thine  earthly  track 

Hope  to  thy  world  may  look  beyond  the  tombs  ? 
Yes !  gentle  spring ;  no  sorrow  dims  thine  air 
Breathed  by  our  loved  ones  there  I 


THE  ILLUMINATED  CITY. 


THE  hills  all  glow'd  with  a  festive  light, 

For  the  royal  city  rejoiced  by  night : 

There  were  lamps  hung  forth  upon  tower  and  tree, 

Banners  were  lifted  and  streaming  free; 

Every  tall  pillar  was  wreath'd  with  fire, 

Like  a  shooting  meteor  was  every  spire ; 

And  the  outline  of  many  a  dome  on  high 

Was  traced,  as  in  stars,  on  the  clear  dark  sky. 

I  pass'd  through  the  streets ;  there  were  throngs  on 

throngs — 

Like  sounds  of  the  deep  were  their  mingled  songs; 
There  was  music  forth  from  each  palace  borne — 
A  peal  of  the  cymbal,  the  harp,  and  horn ; 
The  forests  heard  it,  the  mountains  rang, 
The  hamlets  woke  to  its  haughty  clang ; 
Rich  and  victorious  was  every  tone, 
Telling  the  land  of  her  foes  o'erthrown. 

Didst  thou  meet  not  a  mourner  for  all  the  slain  I 
Thousands  lie  dead  on  their  battle  plain  I 
Gallant  and  true  were  the  hearts  that  fell — 
Grief  in  the  homes  they  have  left  must  dwell; 
Grief  o'er  the  aspect  of  childhood  spread. 
And  bowing  the  beauty  of  woman's  head : 
Didst  thou  hear,  'midst  the  songs,  not  one  tender 

moan, 
For  the  many  brave  to  their  slumbers  gone  ? 

I  saw  not  the  face  of  a  weeper  there — 

Too   strong,   perchance,  was  the  bright  lamp's 

glare  I — 

I  heard  not  a  wail  'midst  the  joyous  crowd— 
The  music  of  victory  was  all  too  loud  I 
Mighty  it  roll'd  on  the  winds  afar, 
Shaking  the  streets  like  a  conqueror's  car; 
Through  torches  and  streamers  its  flood  swept  by- 
How  could  I  listen  for  moan  or  sigh  1 

Turn  then  away  from  life's  pageants,  turn. 

If  its  deep  story  thy  heart  would  learn! 

Ever  too  bright  is  that  outward  show, 

Dazzling  the  eyes  till  they  see  not  woe. 

But  lift  the  proud  mantle  which  hides  from  thy 

view 

The  things  thou  shouldst  gaze  on,  the  sad  and  true 
Nor  fear  to  survey  what  its  folds  conceal- 
So  must  thy  spirit  be  taught  to  feel  I 


THE  SPELLS  OF  HOME. 


There  blend  the  tiei  that  strengthen 

Our  hearts  in  hour*  of  grief, 
The  tilver  liuks  that  lengthen 

Joy "i  visits  when  most  brief. 

Btrnard  Barton. 


BY  the  soft  green  light  in  the  woody  glade, 
On  the  banks  of  moss  where  thy  childhood  play '4 
By  the  household  tree  through  which  thine  eye 
First  look'd  in  love  to  the  summer  sky, 
By  the  dewy  gleam,  by  the  very  breath 
Of  the  primrose  tufts  in  the  grass  beneath. 
Upon  thy  heart  there  is  laid  a  spell. 
Holy  and  precious— oh !  guard  it  well  i 

By  the  sleepy  ripple  of  the  stream, 
Which  hath  lull'd  thee  into  many  a  dream. 
By  the  shiver  of  the  ivy  leaves 
To  the  wind  of  morn  at  thy  casement  eaves, 
By  the  bee's  deep  murmur  in  the  limes, 
By  the  music  of  the  Sabbath  chimes, 
By  every  sound  of  thy  native  shade, 
Stronger  and  dearer  the  spell  is  made 

By  the  gathering  round  the  winter  hearth 
When  twilight  call'd  unto  household  mirth 
By  the  fairy  tale  or  the  legend  old 
lii  that  ring  of  happy  faces  toUl, 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


By  the  quiet  hour  when  hearts  unite 

In  the  parting  prayer  and  the  kind  "  Good-night  t" 

By  the  smiling  eye  and  the  loving  tone, 

Over  thy  lift:  has  the  spall  been  thrown. 

And  bless  that  gift !— it  hath  gentle  might, 
A  guardian  power  and  a  guiding  light. 
It  hath  led  the  freeman  forth  to  stand 
In  the  mountain  battles  of  his  land; 
It  hath  brought  the  wanderer  o'er  the  seas 
To  die  on  the  hills  of  his  own  fresh  breeze ; 
And  bank  to  the  gates  of  his  father's  hall 
It  hath  led  the  weeping  prodigal. 

Yes !  when  thy  heart,  in  its  pride,  would  stray 
From  the  pure  first  loves  of  its  youth  away — 
When  the  sullying  breath  of  the  world  would  come 
O'er  tin;  flowers  it  brought  from  its  childhood'* 

home — 

Think  thou  again  of  the  woody  glade, 
And  the  sound  by  the  rustling  ivy  made, 
Think  of  the  tree  at  thy  father's  door, 
An.t  the  kindly  spell  shall  have  power  once  more  t 


ROMAN  GIRL'S  SONG. 


Roma,  ROBUL,  Bonul 
Non  e  piu  come  era  prim*. 


ROME,  Rome !  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been  I 
On  thy  seven  hills  of  yore 

Thou  satt'st  a  queen. 

Thou  hadst  thy  triumphs  then 

Purpling  the  street. 
Leaders  and  sceptred  men 

Bow'd  at  thy  feet. 

They  that  thy  mantle  wore, 

As  gods  were  seen — 
Rome,  Rome  !  thou  art  no  more 

As  thou  hast  been  1 

Rome  I  thine  imperial  brow 

Never  shall  rise: 
What  hast  thou  left  thee  now  7— 

Thou  hast  thy  skies  I 

Blue,  deeply  blue,  they  are. 

Gloriously  bright ! 
Veiling  thy  wastes  afar 

With  colour'd  light. 

Thou  hast  the  sunset's  glow, 

Rome,  for  thy  dower, 
Flushing  tall  cypress  bough. 

Temple  and  tower  t 

And  all  sweet  sounds  are  thine. 

Lovely  to  hear, 
While  night,  o'er  tomb  and  shrine, 

Rests  darkly  clear. 

Many  a  solemn  hymn, 

By  starlight  sung. 
Sweeps  through  the  arches  dim. 

Thy  wrecks  among. 

Many  a  flute's  low  swell. 

On  thy  soft  air 
Lingers,  and  loves  to  dwell 

With  summer  there. 

Thou  hast  the  south's  rich  gift 

Of  sudden  song — 
A  charmed  fountain,  swift, 

Joyous,  and  strong. 

Thou  hast  fair  forms  that  move 

With  queenly  tread: 
Thou  hast  proud  fanes  above 

Thy  mighty  dead. 


Yet  wears  thy  Tiber's  shore 

A  mournful  mien  : — 
Rome,  Rome !  thou  art  no  more 

As  tuou  hast  been  I 


THE  DISTANT  SHIP. 

The  sea-bird's  wing,  o'er  ocean's  breast 

Shoots  like  a  glancing  star, 
While  the  red  radiance  of  the  west 

Spreads  kindling  fast  and  far; 
And  yet  that  splendour  wins  thee  not— 

Thy  still  and  thoughtful  eye 
Dwells  but  on  one  dark  distant  spot 

Of  all  the  main  and  sky. 

LOOK  round  thee  !— o'er  the  slumbering  deep 

A  solemn  glory  broods ; 
A  fire  hath  touch'd  the  beacon-steep. 

And  all  the  golden  woods ; 
A  thousand  gorgeous  clouds  on  high 

Burn  with  the  amber  light  I — 
What  spell,  from  that  rich  pageantry. 

Chains  down  thy  gazing  sight  ? 

A  softening  thought  of  human  cares, 

A  feeling  link'd  to  earth  7 
Is  not  yon  speck  a  bark,  which  bean 

The  loved  of  many  a  hearth  7 
Oh !  do  not  Hope,  and  Grief,  and  Fear, 

Crowd  her  frail  world  e'en  now. 
And  manhood's  prayer,  and  woman's  tuar 

Follow  her  venturous  prow  1 

Bright  are  the  floating  clouds  above. 
The  glittering  seas  below. 

But  we  are  bound  by  cords  of  lova 
To  kindred  weal  and  woe. 

Therefore,  amidst  this  wide  array 
Of  glorious  things  and  fair, 

My  soul  is  on  that  bark's  lone  way—- 
For human  hearts  are  there. 


THE  BIRDS  OF  PASSAGE. 


BIRDS,  joyous  birds  of  the  wandering  wing! 
Whence  is  it  ye  come  with  the  flowers  of  spring  ?- 
'  We  come  from  the  shores  of  the  green  old  Nile. 
From  the  land  where  the  roses  of  Sharon  smile, 
From  the  palms  that  wave  through  the  Indian  sky 
From  the  myrrh-trees  of  glowing  Araby. 

"  We  have  wept  o'er  cities  in  song  renown'd — 

Silent  they  lie  with  the  deserts  round! 

We  have  cross'd  proud  rivers,  whose  tide  hatb 

roll'd 

All  dark  with  the  warrior-blood  of  old ; 
And  each  worn  wing  hath  regain'd  its  home, 
Under  peasant's  roof-tree,  or  monarch's  dome." 

And  what  have  ye  found  in  the  monarch's  dome 
Since  last  ye  traversed  the  blue  sea's  foam  7 — 
"  We  have  found  a  change,  we  have  found  a  pall 
And  a  gloom  o'ershadowing  the  banquet's  hall. 
And  a  mark  on  tho  floor  as  of  life-drops  spilt — 
Naught  looks  the  same,  save  the  nest  we  built  t" 

O  joyous  birds,  it  hath  still  been  so; 
Through  the  halls  of  kings  doth  the  tempest  go! 
But  the  huts  of  the  hamlet  lie  still  and  deep, 
And  the  hills  o'er  their  quirt  a  vigil  keep. 
Say  what  have  ye  found  in  the  peasant's  cot. 
Since  last  ye  parted  from  that  sweet  spot  7 — 

"  A  change  we  have  found  there  —  and  many  I 
;  change ! 

i  Faces,  and  footsteps,  and  all  things  strange  I 
t  Gone  are  the  heads  of  the  silvery  hair, 
'  And  the  young  that  were  have  a  brow  of  care, 
i  And  the  place  is  hush'd  where  the  children  play'd— 
I  Naught  looks  the  same  save  the  nest  we  made !" 

Sad  is  your  tale  of  the  beautiful  earth, 
!  Birds  that  o'ersweep  it  in  power  and  mirth  I 


350 


IIEMANS'.POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  through  the  wastes  of  the  trackless  air 
Ye  have  a  guide,  and  shall  ice  despair  ? 
Ye  over  desert  and  deep  have  pass'd — 
So  may  we  reach  our  bright  borne  at  last  I 


THE  GRAVES  OF  A  HOUSEHOLD 


THEY  grew  in  beauty,  side  by  side, 
They  fill'd  one  home  with  glee;— 

Their  graves  are  sever'd,  far  and  wide, 
By  mount,  arid  stream,  and  sea. 

The  same  fond  mother  bent  at  night 
O'er  each  fair  sleeping  brow  ; 

8he  had  each  folded  flower  in  sight- 
Where  are  those  dreamers  now  ? 

One,  'midst  the  forests  of  the  west, 

By  a  dark  stream  is  laid— 
The  Indian  knows  his  place  nl  rest, 

Far  in  thi;  cedar  shade. 

The  sea,  the  blue  lone  sea,  hath  one- 
He  lies  where  pearls  lie  deep ; 

He  was  the  loved  of  all,  yet  none 
O'ei  his  low  bed  may  weep. 

One  sleeps  where  southern  vines  are  drest, 

Above  the  noble  slain  : 
He  wrapt  his  colours  round  his  breast 

On  a  blood-red  field  of  Spain. 

And  om  —o'er  her  the  myrtle  showers 
Its  le&  ires  by  soft  winds  fann'd ; 

She  faded  'midst  Italian  flowers — 
The  last  of  that  bright  band. 

And  parted  thus  they  rest,  who  play'd 

Beneath  the  same  green  tree  ; 
Whose  voices  mingled  as  they  pray'd 

Around  one  parent  knee  ! 

Thjy  that  with  smiles  lit  up  the  hall, 
And  cheer'd  with  song  the  hearth — 

Alas  I  for  love,  if  tlwu  wert  all, 
And  naught  beyond,  O  earth  1 


MOZART'S  REQUIEM. 


A  «hort  time  before  the  death  of  Mozart,  a  stranger 
ef  remarkable  appearance,  and  dressed  in  deep  mourn- 
ing, called  at  his  house,  and  requested  him  to  prepare  a 
Requiem,  in  his  best  style,  for  the  funeral  of  a  distin- 
guished person.  The  sensitive  imagination  of  the  com- 
coser  immediately  seized  upon  the  circumstance  as  an 
•men  of  his  own  fate ;  nnd  the  nervous  anxiety  with 
which  he  laboured  to  fulfil  the  task,  had  the  effect  of 
'ealizing  his  impression.  He  died  within  a  few  days 
after  completing  this  magnificent  piece  of  music,  which 
was  performed  at  his  interment. 

Tbe»e  birdi  of  Paradise  but  long  to  flea 
Back  to  Iheir  native  mansion. 

Prophecy  of  Dantt. 

A  REQCIRM  !— and  f sr  whom  ? 

For  beauty  in  its  bloom  ? 
For  valour  fall'n— a  broken  rose  or  sword? 

A  dirge  for  king  or  chief, 

With  pomp  of  stately  grief. 
Banner,  and  torch,  and  waving  plume  deplored  f 

Not  so,  it  is  not  so  1 

The  warning  voice  I  know, 
From  other  worlds  a  strange  mysterious  tone ; 

A  solemn  funeral  air 

It  call'd  me  to  prepare, 
And  my  heart  answer'd  secretly— my  own  I 

One  more  then,  one  more  strain, 
In  links  of  joy  and  pain. 
Mighty  the  troubled  spirit  to  enthral)  1 


And  let  me  brcnthn  my  dower 
Of  passion  and  of  power 
Full  into  that  deep  lay— the  last  of  all  I 

The  last !— and  I  must  go 

From  this  bright  world  below, 
Tins  realm  of  sunshine,  ringing  with  swee-tsour.di 

Must  leave  its  festal  skies, 

With  all  their  melodies, 
That  ever  in  my  breast  glad  echoes  found  ! 

Yet  have  1  known  it  long: 

Too  restless  and  too  strong 
Within  this  clay  hath  been  th'o'ernmsterina  flame t 

Swift  thoughts,  that  came  arid  went, 

Like  torrents  o'er  me  sent, 
Have  shaken,  as  a  reed,  my  thrilling  frame. 

Like  perfumes  on  the  wind. 

Which  none  may  stay  or  bind. 
The  beautiful  comes  floating  through  my  soul; 

I  strive  with  yearnings  vain 

The  spirit  to  detain 
Of  the  deep  harmonies  that  past  me  roll ' 

Therefore  disturbing  dreams 

Trouble  the  secret  streams 
And  founts  of  music  that  o'erflow  my  breast ; 

Something  far  more  divine 

Than  may  on  earth  be  mine, 
Haunts  my  worn  heart,  and  will  not  let  me  rest. 

Shall  I  then  fear  the  tone 

That  breathes  from  worlds  unknown  7— 
Surely  these  feverish  aspirations  there 

Shall  grasp  their  full  desire, 

And  this  unsettled  fire 
Burn  calmly,  brightly,  in  immortal  air. 

One  more  then,  one  more  strain  , 

To  earthly  joy  and  pain 
A  rich,  and  deep,  and  passionate  farewell! 

I  pour  each  fervent  thought 

With  fear,  hope,  trembling,  fraught, 
Into  the  notes  that  o'er  my  dust  shall  swell. 


THE  IMAGE  IN  LAVA* 


THOU  thing  of  years  departed  I 

What  ages  have  gone  by, 
Since  here  the  mournful  seal  was  set 

By  love  and  agony  I 

Temple  and  tower  have  moulder'd, 
Empires  from  earth  have  pass'd. 

And  woman's  heart  hath  left  a  trace 
Those  glories  to  outlast  1 

And  childhood's  fragile  image 

Thus  fearfully  enshrined, 
Survives  the  proud  memorials  rear'd 

By  conquerors  of  mankind. 

Babe !  wert  thou  brightly  slumbering 

Upon  thy  mother's  breast, 
When  suddenly  the  fiery  tomb 

Shut  round  each  gentle  guest? 

A  strange,  dark  fate  o'ertook  you. 
Fair  babe  and  loving  heart  t 

One  moment  of  a  thousand  pangs — 
Yet  better  than  to  part  1 

Haply  of  that  fond  bosom 

On  ashes  here  impress'd, 
Thou  wert  the  only  treasure,  child  I 

Whereon  a  hope  might  rest. 

Perchance  all  vainly  lavish'd 

Its  other  love  had  been, 
And  where  it  trusted,  naught  remaift'4 

But  thorns  on  which  to  lean. 

Far  better  then  to  perish 

Thy  form  within  its  clasp, 
Than  live  and  lose  thee,  precious  one! 

From  that  impassion'd  grasp. 


*  The  impression  of  a 
the  bosom,  round  al  the  i 


1*8  form, 
ng  of  He 


»ith  an  infant  ctapei  * 
ulaneum. 


HEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


'•  hi  I  could  pass  all  relics 
Left  by  the  pomps  of  old, 

To  gaze  on  this  rude  monument. 
Cast  in  affection's  mould. 

Love,  human  love  !  what  art  thou, 
Thy  print  upon  the  dust 

Outlives  the  cities  of  renown 
Wherein  the  mighty  trust  i 

Immortal,  oh !  immortal 
Thou  art,  whose  earthly  glow 

Hath  given  these  ashes  holiness—- 
It must,  it  must  be  BO  ! 


THE  LAST  WISH. 

Well  may  I  weep  to  leave  this  world— tliee— ill  these  beaatihi 
w  .iwt,  .nd  plains,  and  hills. Lightt  and  Shadow*. 

Go  to  the  forest  shade. 

Seek  thou  the  well-known  glade, 

Whei«,  heavy  with  sweet  dew,  the  violets  lie, 
Gleaming  through  moss-tufts  deep. 
Like  dark  eyes  fill'd  with  sleep, 

And  tallied  in  hues  of  summer's  midnight  sky. 

Bring  me  their  buds,  to  shed 

Around  my  dying  bed, 
A  broath  of  May  and  of  the  wood's  repose ; 

For  I,  in  sooth,  depart 

With  a  reluctant  heart, 
That  fain  would  linger  where  the  bright  sun  glows. 

Fain  would  I  stay  with  thee — 

Alas  !  this  may  nol  be ; 
Vet  bring  me  still  the  gifts  of  happier  hours ! 

Go  where  the  fountain's  breast 

Catches,  in  glassy  rest, 
The  dim  green  light  that  pours  thro' laurel  bowers. 

I  know  how  softly  bright, 

Steep'd  in  tha;  under  light, 
The  water-lilies  tremble  there  e'en  now; 

Go  to  the  pure  strea.n'w  edge. 

And  from  its  wfcisj'enng  sedge 
Bring  me  those  (towers  to  rout  my  fever'd  brow  I 

Then,  as  in  Hope's  your;?  days, 

Track  thou  the  antique  nSa.*) 
Of  tbe  rich  garden  to  its  grassy  mourn! : 

There  is  a  lone  white  rose, 

Shedding,  in  sudden  snows. 
Its  faint  leaves  o'er  the  emerald  tun  *-«a*d. 

Well  know'st  thou  that  fair  tree-  - 

A  murmur  of  the  bee 
Dwells  ever  in  the  honey'd  lime  above; 

Bring  me  one  pearly  flower 

Of  all  its  clustering  shower— 
For  on  that  spot  we  first  reveal'd  our  low. 

Gather  one  woodbine  bough, 

Then,  from  the  lattice  low 
Of  the  bower'd  cottage  which  I  bed*  th^p  ««ark, 

When  by  the  hamlet  last, 

Through  dim  wood-lanes  wr  |  isiV 
While   dews  were  glancing  to  the  glov-worm'i 
spark. 

Haste !  to  my  pillow  bear 
Those  fragrant  things  and  farr; 

My  hand  no  more  may  bind  them  up  at  eve- 
Yet  shall  their  odour  soft 
One  bright  dream  round  me  waft 

Of  life,  youth,  summer — all  that  1  must  •     ve! 

And,  oh  I  if  thou  wouldst  ask 

Wherefore  thy  steps  I  task. 
The  grove,  the  stream,  the  hamlet  vale  to  trace — 

'T  is  thai  some  thought  of  me, 

When  I  am  gone,  may  be 
Tbe  spirit  bound  to  each  familiar  place 


I  bid  mine  image  dwei. 

(Oh  !  break  not  thou  the  spell  ) 
In  the  deep  wood  and  by  the  fountain  side; 

Thou  must  not,  my  beloved ! 

Rove  where  we  two  have  roved. 
Forgetting  her  that  in  her  spring-time  died! 


FAIRY    FAVOURS. 


Give  me  but 

[nettling  wherennto  I  may  bind  my  heart 
nictliing  to  love,  to  rest  upon,  to  clasp 
Affection's  tendrils  round. 


WOULDST  thou  wear  the  gift  of  immortal  bloom  ' 
Wouldst  thou  smile  in  scorn  at  the  shadowy  tomb  1 
Drink  of  this  cup!  it  is  richly  fraught 
With  balm  from  the  gardens  of  genii  brought ; 
Drink,  knd  the  spoiler  shall  pass  thee  by, 
When  the  young  all  scatter'd  like  rose-leave*  lie. 

And  would  not  the  youth  of  my  soul  be  gone, 
If  the  loved  had  left  me,  one  by  one  ? 
Take  back  the  cup  that  may  never  bless, 
The  gift  that  would  make  me  hrolherless ; 
How  should  I  live,  with  no  kindred  eye 
To  reflect  mine  immortality  7 

Wouldst  thou  have  empire,  by  sign  or  spell. 
Over  the  mighty  in  air  thai  dwell  ? 
Wouldst  thou  call  the  spirits  of  shore  and  sleep 
To  felch  Ihee  jewels  from  ocean  s  deep? 
Wave  hul  this  rod,  and  a  viewless  band, 
Slaves  to  thy  will,  shall  around  thee  stand. 

And  would  not  fear,  at  my  coining  then, 
Hush  every  voice  in  the  homes  of  men? 
Would  not  bright  eyes  in  my  presence  quail  ? 
Young  cheeks  with  a  nameless  thrill  turn  pale  7 
No  gift  be  mine  thai  aside  would  turn 
The  human  love  for  whose  founts  I  yearn  ! 

Wouldst  thou  then  read  through  the  hearts  of 

those 

Upon  whose  faith  thou  hast  sought  repose  7 
Weai  this  rich  gem  !  it  is  chanifd  to  show 
When  a  change  comes  over  affection's  glow  ; 
Ixwk  on  its  flushing  or  fading  hue, 
And  learn  if  the  trusled  be  false  or  Irue  I 

Keep,  keep  the  gem,  that  I  still  may  trust, 
Though  my  heart's  wealth  he  but  pour'd  on  du*t 
Let  not  a  doubt  in  iny  soul  have  place, 
To  dim  the  light  of  a  loved  one's  face ; 
Leave  to  the  earth  its  warm  sunny  smile- 
That  glory  would  pass  could  I  look  on  guile  I 

Say  then  what  boon  of  my  power  shall  be, 
Favour'd  of  spirits !  pour'd  forth  on  thee  ? 
Thou  scornest  the  treasures  of  wave  and  mine, 
Thou  wilt  nol  drink  of  the  cup  divine, 
Thou  art  fain  with  a  mortal's  lot  to  rest — 
Answer  me  !  how  may  I  grace  it  best  7 

Oh !  give  me  no  sway  o'er  the  powers  unseen. 
But  a  human  heart  where  my  own  may  lean  ! 
A  friend,  one  tender  and  faithful  friend. 
Whose  thoughts'  free  current  with  mine  ma 

blend, 

And  leaving  riot  either  on  earth  alone, 
Bid  the  bright  calm  close  of  our  lives  be  one  I 


A  PARTING  SONG 


"  Oh !  met  Amis,  rappeltex-vous  quelquefois  i 
f  «t  emprciuto." 


CV+mt. 


WHEW  will  ye  think  of  me,  my  friends? 
When  will  ye  think  of  me? — 
When  the  last  red  light,  the  farewell  of  day, 
From  the  rock  and  the  river  is  passing  nwav— 


353 


IIEMANS'  POETICAL  WORKS. 


WJien  the  air  with  a  deep'ning  hush  is  fraught. 
And  the  Heart  grows  Lurden'd  with  tender  thought, 
Then  let  it  bo  I 

When  will  ye  think  of  me,  kind  friends  ? 
When  will  ye  think  of  me?— 
When  the  rose  of  the  rich  mid-summer  time 
Is  lill'd  with  the  hues  of  its  glorious  prune — 
When  ye  gather  its  bloom,  as  in  bright  hours  fled. 
From  -.he  walks  where  my  footsteps~no  more  may 
tiead— 

Then  let  it  be ! 

Wbeu  will  ve  think  of  me.  sweet  friend*? 


When  will  ye  think  of  me? — 
When  the  sudden  tears  overflow  your  eye 
At  the  sound  of  some  olden  melody. 
When  ye  hear  the  voice  of  a  mountain  strea 
When  ye  feel  the  charm  of  a  poet's  dream, 

Then  let  it  be ' 

Tims  let  my  memory  be  with  you,  frieada  I 

Thus  ever  think  of  me  I 
Kindly  and  gently,  but  as  of  one 
For  whom  'tis  well  to  be  fled  and  gone — 
As  of  a  bird  from  a  chain  unbound, 
A*  of  a  wanderer  whose  hom«  u  fouad- 
go  l«t  it  be. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


.*•*  » 


OGT80M 

luLF    JAN  2 

"Mrr 

ADD  J_  g  |gpj 


REC'DC.L.AUGOZ'97 


QL  JAN  2  5  1999 


0  1994 


A     000  111  116 


